


The Letter Doyle Never Sent

by Maddalia



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-16
Updated: 2012-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-26 17:20:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 30,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maddalia/pseuds/Maddalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of Barry Martin's treachery and death, Doyle is finding it increasingly difficult to bury his feelings for Bodie behind the facade of casual sex that has sustained them for the past six months. Meanwhile, an escaped Soviet prisoner and one-time double agent is out for CI5 blood, and it falls to Bodie and Doyle, Cowley's finest, to find out what he's planning - and stop him before it's too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic follows on from Public Duty, Private Mischief. It is set between Series 1 and Series 2 of _The Professionals._
> 
> The story would be a lot worse than it is without the input of moonlightmead on Draft 1, merentha13 on Draft 2, and moonlightmead again on the rest. Thanks so much to both of you!

Deliciously, deliriously, _dangerously_ happy.

That was how Ray Doyle had felt, the first time he and Bodie had crossed the line from work partners to sexual partners. Six months later, he was feeling it again, and with no less intensity.

 _That was the best,_ he thought, _the fucking best ..._

He lay and listened to the shower going in the next room, sighing in the luxury of afterglow, knowing it couldn’t last. In a minute Bodie would have finished and he’d have to get up. They had to visit the Cow in hospital. He’d told them — well, _ordered_ them; George Cowley didn’t merely _tell_ people anything — to bring him some scotch. Covertly, of course.

‘Let’s sneak it in with the grapes,’ Bodie had suggested. ‘Pretend we’ve forgotten it ...’

‘Then scarper,’ Doyle had finished for him, making him laugh, making himself feel warm, because the sight and sound of Bodie laughing was better than almost anything.

Bodie in the throes of orgasm, sitting up, arms spread wide despite the knife wound in his right shoulder, riding Doyle’s cock, all that formidable weight and strength pulling up and pushing down on Doyle with every stroke, and the words straining from his lips: _’Ray ... you blow my fucking mind ...’_ and then, dear God, there was _rapture._

 _Best ever. Never top that._

It would have been perfect, if it wasn’t love.

Doyle realised he didn't mind the word any more. He'd hated thinking it at first — no matter what his tendencies, he'd only ever visualised himself falling in love with a woman — but there was no other way to describe what he felt for Bodie. Not without going all round the houses and winding up with some convoluted phrase that sounded soppier than what he'd started with. But even before he'd felt comfortable with the word, he'd recognised the feeling. He'd known for a long time that it was love. Not quite at first sight, but certainly not more than a month or so after they were partnered.

It didn't matter. Any length of time was too long when the feeling was unrequited. Oh, Bodie loved him, there was no doubt about that. But _his_ love was the right sort: a tough, matey affection. He enjoyed Doyle's company when they were together, missed him when they were apart; he winced in sympathy at his injuries, and Doyle had no doubt that he'd shed a tear or two in the event of his death. And, since the sex had started, Bodie had become more physically affectionate too, probably for no more reason than that he felt free to do so. Until recently, their coming together had mostly happened after tough assignments, when each of them needed to be with the one other person who understood what they’d been through, and they’d often needed more than just sex to see them to the other side of it. So there were whispered reassurances, kisses and caresses, fierce, hard embraces. The only thing they never did was hold each other after sex. It would have been too intimate for Bodie, and as for Doyle — he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold his feelings back.

The sound of the shower cut off, interrupting Doyle’s thoughts. A moment later, Bodie emerged from the bathroom with a towel around his waist.

‘Alright, you lazy bastard, bathroom’s free. Fancy a cuppa?’

‘Yeah, thanks.’

‘I’ll put the kettle on. You’d better get moving.’

Doyle wrinkled his nose in distaste at the thought of getting up, and stretched himself, watching Bodie’s retreating figure out of the corner of his eye.

‘If we’re that pressed for time, maybe I should’ve come in with you,’ he called, sitting up.

Bodie stuck his head round the door and grinned. ‘Would’ve taken twice as long then.’

Doyle grinned back. Bodie’s head disappeared. Doyle heard retreating footsteps, then the sound of whistling as Bodie pottered about in the kitchen. He collapsed back on the bed, seized with a sudden fit of despondency.

 _It’s all so good,_ he thought. _So why can’t I stop wanting to mess with it?_

He got up, had a quick shower, brushed his teeth, dragged on the clothes he’d left at Bodie’s flat last time he was there. He smiled to himself when he thought that he and his partner probably did as much of each other’s washing as their own these days. He padded out to the kitchen, where Bodie was sitting, fully dressed, at the table, with his hands wrapped around a cup of coffee. He smiled as Doyle joined him.

 _Don’t ruin the mood,_ Doyle said to himself. _It’s such a good mood. You’re smiling, he’s smiling, don’t wreck it!_

‘Bodie,’ he said out loud. ‘D’you know, you’re my most regular partner these days? In bed, I mean.’

 _Damn it,_ why _did I have to go ahead and ..._

‘So? You’re mine too.’ Bodie frowned slightly. ‘That’s OK, isn’t it?’

 _Thank Christ for that ..._

‘Course it’s OK.’

‘Well that’s OK then.’

 _It’s more than OK, it’s fucking fantastic ..._

But Doyle didn’t say that. He knew why their arrangement was OK with Bodie: it didn’t threaten anything. Surely for now he could manage to keep it that way. For Bodie. For _both_ of them. God only knew what his confession would do to them, when finally he _couldn’t_ hold it back anymore. For one reason or another, Bodie was Doyle’s whole life, and the longer he could avoid turning it upside down, the better it would be for all concerned.

So he returned Bodie’s smile and settled down to his coffee, enjoying his partner’s silent yet amiable presence across the kitchen table, and tried to ignore the certainty he felt, that he’d want no other version of domestic bliss as long as he lived.


	2. Chapter 2

It was when they were back at work that Doyle felt worse about the whole thing. Tiredness and stress were par for the course with CI5 agents, so any problems you had outside the job seemed magnified when you were working. Unless you were like poor old Tommy, who’d used the job to forget real life. Even Bodie could be like that sometimes. But Doyle couldn't. His feelings would crowd upon him and come out in anger, making him near-impossible to be around. He knew no one envied Bodie for having to put up with him when he was in one of his moods.

Not that anyone had to put up with him at the moment. Bodie was in Records because of his shoulder, so Cowley had sent Doyle on a dull solo surveillance job in Leeds. Perhaps he'd thought Doyle would want to be alone after the Barry Martin affair. He'd have been right. Doyle _was_ still cut up about Barry. The whole operation had been horrible, from start to finish. Doyle wasn't sure what made him madder: Barry betraying them all, or not being able to pull the trigger when he _knew_ Barry had gone rogue. And there was the other thing, too: his feeling so jealous at Bodie's shameless flirting with Barry's girlfriend. That, he realised, made him the angriest of all.

 _Never thought of myself as the jealous type,_ he mused, still hating himself for what he allowed his partner to do to him. _Not that the poor bugger knows he's doing it._

Boring his assignment might have been, but Doyle did find it a relief to be alone, even at the same time as he missed his partner. Not that their recent couple of days together hadn't been wonderful, but he'd begun to find Bodie’s presence stifling. There was too much he couldn’t say, and that was becoming increasingly hard for him. It wasn't that he couldn't keep shtum about something when the need arose. He was in an occupation that was full of various types of secret keeping, and he was good at all of them. But that didn’t mean he wanted his life outside the job to be an undercover operation. Alone, he could be honest with himself, think things out, decide what his next move was going to be.

Unfortunately, even with a week on his own, in which there was little else to do _but_ think, he still couldn't work out what he was going to do about Bodie.

The night before he went home, Doyle realised that if he didn't break the silence soon it would just seem odd. He picked up the phone, feeling irrationally nervous, and rang Bodie.

'Hello, stranger!' Bodie sounded delighted. Doyle was just happy he was home, not out turning on the charm to some bimbo or other. Well, he would be, if ...

'You alone?' he asked.

'Yeah!' Bodie's tone was dismissive, as if he couldn't imagine why it mattered. He probably couldn't. Doyle wished he didn't feel so relieved.

'Good, you can talk then,' he said casually. 'How are you, mate?'

'Fine,' said Bodie. He sounded amused. Even Doyle felt slightly silly; they weren't the sort of people who small-talked, let alone to each other. 'How’re you doing, sunshine?'

'Glad to be coming home tomorrow.'

'Oh you are, brilliant! I've missed that ugly mug of yours, haven't seen you in over a week!'

The guileless enthusiasm in Bodie's voice made Doyle's chest ache.

'No ...' he replied lamely. 'How's the shoulder?'

'Almost fine. Cow's got me in Records for another week, though.'

'Ooooh,' Doyle said, with sympathetic distaste.

'Yeah,' agreed Bodie. 'So has the old miser given you any time off after your stint in the frozen north, or are you straight back at it?'

'I've got the rest of the week off. 'S only four days, but it'll do.'

'Time to catch up on all the nubile London lovelies you've missed out on, then!'

'Fuck yeah,' said Doyle, although the only person he felt like catching up on was Bodie.

'Although,' said Bodie, 'I don't s'pose you could put it on hold for a night, could you? I've not seen you in a week but it's even longer since we ...'

Doyle nearly laughed out loud, he felt so happy.

'Fuck _yeah,'_ he repeated, with a lot more enthusiasm this time.

'My place, tomorrow night?'

'Yes.' Doyle was breathless as he said it. It wasn't his _lust_ for Bodie that needed to be disguised. Things were what they were, and all he could do was make the best of them. And it was pleasantly easy to forget to think, just to enjoy the stirring of his loins as Bodie, breathless as he, told him in no uncertain terms what was going to happen tomorrow night.

'I think I'll go away and think about that,' Doyle said.

'So will I,' Bodie replied. Doyle could hear the smile in his voice. ‘Night, Ray.'

'Night,' said Doyle.

He hung up the phone and set his hands to a more intimate task.


	3. Chapter 3

Doyle spent three nights of his leave with birds and Bodie. On the last night, they decided to go their separate ways. Bodie had secured himself a blind date with a girl from C11 he'd spoken to on the phone a few times while working in Records. Doyle called up one of the nurses he'd met while visiting Bodie in hospital. They purposely resisted each other in bed that morning, saving themselves for their women. It wasn't easy. Bodie had let his hair grow a bit lately — _sexier than ever,_ thought Doyle — and the way Bodie looked while asleep gave Doyle butterflies in his stomach and an almost uncontrollable urge to kiss him awake. And never stop kissing him.

 _It’s getting worse,_ he thought miserably. There was no point in denying it any more.

He tried to spend the day relaxing. He went for a long, leisurely run, then played his guitar for a while. He couldn’t help but think of Bodie. There was hardly a piece of music that didn’t remind him of his partner these days. Not trusting himself to sing it, Doyle picked his way through a few bars of the fingerstyle version of _The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face._ He reduced himself to a giggling heap trying to get through two equally appalling songs called _Blue Eyes_ , but he didn’t finish either of them. He was too agitated. He played about in an alternative tuning for a while, but the normally mellow sound soon turned angry. Resigned to his mood, he tweaked the strings into open A, found the glass slide he’d made years ago from the neck of a Mateus Rosé bottle, and improvised around a basic blues progression.

But his playing turned so violent that he broke one of the well-worn strings, and his pick flew across the room. Where had the bloody thing gone? Doyle shrugged, fished out a spare D-string, and pulled the broken strands out of the bridge and machine head.

 _Great. Now the bloody thing’ll go out of tune every thirty seconds._

Back to fingerstyle again, Doyle fiddled about for a bit, not realising he was playing anything in particular, until a haunting minor chord drew him into an old, slow melody.

 _Black is the colour of my true love's hair  
His face, so soft and wondrous fair  
The purest eyes and the strongest hands  
I love the ground whereon he stands...._

Doyle’s face flushed as his voice wobbled. It didn’t matter that he was alone; _he_ knew how pathetic he was being, and that was enough. Gritting his teeth, he stood up and hefted the guitar, wanting in that second to destroy it, but he caught himself in time, and put the instrument carefully back on its shelf. He swallowed the lump that had come into his throat.

 _Dammit, this isn’t me,_ he thought, sitting down heavily on the couch. _All lovesick and romantic? When did I get like this? Bloody Bodie, making me like this ..._

He didn’t understand it. He _liked_ the existing nature of his relationship with Bodie. Being with him was so easy, or had been, before his feelings had got too much for him. There’d been no pressure, no obligation, nothing but pleasure, so why, _why,_ did he want things to change? _Did_ he, really, after all? Did he seriously want them to settle down, be monogamous, get all domestic and romantic?

No. It wasn't any of that. But if they were going to carry on sleeping together, he needed to feel free to act on  _love,_ not merely lust and the occasional bit of mild affection. He couldn’t keep repressing all this. It was too strong. He knew Bodie loved him, so he was fairly sure Bodie knew he was loved — but Doyle needed him to know _how_ he was loved, even if it split them up. Even if it meant giving up the best sex he'd ever had ...

 _I’ve got to have him. Properly, seriously, no holds barred. Or nothing. I can’t cope with just having him casually any more. I’ve got to tell him soon._

He sighed frustratedly. _So much for easy._

He drank a can of lager, then went and beat the hell out of the punchbag in his garage. Mollified somewhat, he tinkered with his bike, then went back into his flat for a shower. _Not long till I pick up Kara. She’ll take my mind off it for a bit._ A temporary solution was still a solution, wasn’t it?

But at four o'clock, his phone rang, and it was Bodie.

'Hello you,' Doyle said amiably. 'Checking up on me?'

'Um, not quite. Listen, I need a favour. I know I've no right to ask, but ...'

'Don't be daft, just ask.’

'Would you cancel your date — stay with me tonight?'

‘Yours stand you up, did she?’ Doyle asked cynically.

‘No. I’ve cancelled on her.’

Doyle frowned. ‘Bodie, are you all right?’

‘Well,’ replied Bodie, sounding distinctly awkward. ‘I’m not sick, I’m not injured, there’s no major crisis — it’s just —'

‘What?’ Doyle prompted, when Bodie hesitated.

‘Look, don’t laugh, but I’ve just had a bad day, alright? Just a bad day. Nothing life-threatening or devastating. It’s just been one of those crappy days. And okay, maybe normally I’d drown my sorrows in drink and some girl, but today I just …’

 _Want to come home to me,_ Doyle thought. _I wish._

‘Need some male company?’ he asked flirtatiously.

‘One in particular,’ Bodie answered.

 _Bye, Kara._

‘Of course. Come round to mine. I’ll be there.’

‘Thanks,’ Bodie said. Doyle felt flooded with the warmth in his voice.

Two hours later, Doyle buzzed Bodie into his flat. Bodie looked tired and drawn, fed up and stressed. He gave Doyle a weak smile and collapsed against the door, shutting it with his body. Doyle walked up to him and took him by the shoulders. Now the ball was in Bodie’s court: he could kiss, embrace, grope, gaze into Doyle’s eyes, ask for a drink ...

 _Anything you want,_ Doyle thought, wishing he had the courage to say it. But words didn’t seem to be necessary. After looking at him for a few seconds, Bodie heaved a huge sigh, then buried his head in the curve of Doyle’s neck and shoulder, and hugged him close.

‘Aww, Bodie,’ Doyle said softly, soothingly. His arms tightened around his partner. ‘It’s OK. Home now, mate.’

‘Tighter,’ Bodie muttered. Doyle squeezed him as hard as he could, and held on, waiting for Bodie to let go. After what seemed equally too long and not nearly long enough, Bodie did so. He pulled back, a warm smile on his face.

‘Better?’ Ray asked.

‘Yeah,’ said Bodie, stage-whispering and elongating the word as they both so often did. Doyle smiled at the familiar sound. Bodie ruffled his hair and made a beeline for the alcohol.

‘Oh, help yourself.’

‘Don’t mind if I do. Want a drink?’

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ echoed Doyle. He accepted the glass of gin Bodie handed him, and they both flopped down in front of the television. They watched in silence, keeping to their own personal space. But after a while, Doyle found himself wanting more contact. _Be nice to rest my head on his shoulder. Would Bodie mind if I just ...?_

But he knew he wouldn’t be able to sit there, knowing that their proximity meant so much more to him than it did to Bodie. He opened his mouth to say something seductive ...

‘You can lean on me if you want.’

 _Dammit, what the fuck did I say that for?_

But there was no damage done. Bodie glanced sideways at him and gave him a fond smile.

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ he said. He lay down, resting his head in Doyle’s lap, stretching out full length on the couch, bare feet hanging over the end. Doyle tried to stop the silly grin he knew was spreading across his face, but he couldn’t.

‘Don’t worry, sunshine, I haven't gone completely soft on you,’ Bodie looked up at Doyle through thick black eyelashes. ‘I’ll turn over in a bit.’


	4. Chapter 4

When Doyle returned to work the next day, Bodie was still in Records, so Cowley sent Agent 4.5 on yet another surveillance job. The weather was bleak, the location was cold and damp, the action was minimal, and Doyle was starting to feel like he was coming down with something. Forty-eight hours in, he had a day like Bodie’d had: not life-threatening, no disasters, just a bloody bad day.

Doyle knew what he wanted to do. He thought about it as he was driving home that night. He wanted to call Bodie, reach out — ask for comfort, just like Bodie had. But he was afraid to do it. When he'd been the comforter it was OK: he had control of the situation. But if their roles were reversed, if _he_ were the vulnerable one, Doyle was worried about what he might say.

He imagined what it would be like to feel Bodie’s arms around him, squeezing out the tension. He thought about clinging to his partner, drawing comfort from his embrace. How many men were that lucky? To feel like hell, and be held so tightly, so intimately, by someone as large, as strong — if not larger and stronger — than they were? Perhaps, if things were really bad, even to weep in the shelter of those arms; or if things were just crap, like today, merely to be hugged for a few moments would make all the difference in the world.

It was a luxury that was usually reserved for women and children, and Doyle badly wanted it that day. But he knew he couldn’t take it, even if Bodie offered. He was over-thinking things again. He was already saying those dreaded three words in his head. And then the day wasn’t just crap anymore. The mundane badness was giving way to a more intense pain.

Those three words. Fuck it, he couldn’t go on like this. He had to tell Bodie. He _had_ to tell him! If it shot their relationship to hell, at least it would be quick. And then back to … what? Had there ever been a life without Bodie?

 _Had there ever been_ … oh, he had it bad. If it weren’t so heart-breaking it would have been embarrassing. If it were happening to someone else, Doyle would have laughed. He’d have found it pathetic. Except it wasn’t pathetic: that implied smallness. This was anything but.

He reached his front door and entered his cold, empty home, or what passed for home. He was still shivering from the built-up chill and damp of the day. The first thing he did was to light a fire: there was a real fireplace in the living room of his current flat, and it was comforting on nights like these. He warmed himself for a while in front of the blaze. Then he went to his stereo, and looked through his records. He didn’t want something happy to cheer him up, or something angry to get drunk to; he wanted something passionate and melancholic, something to reflect his own feelings. He found a likely-looking specimen and put it on. Grandiose, orchestral music: The Moody Blues’ _Days of Future Passed._ The opening strains of the first track made Doyle's lips twitch a little in the ghost of a smile, and the knot in his stomach eased slightly.

But, he realised, as he reached for the bottle of gin, none of this would take his problems away. It was stupid to cry over milk that hadn’t yet been spilled. He still had to tell Bodie how he felt. He’d phone him, catch him before he left for his date. He’d cancelled a date for Bodie the other day; Bodie could just as well cancel one for him. There’d be time enough and need enough for drinking after Bodie had rejected him.

Doyle still went for Dutch courage in the end, though. Too much. He drank until his head buzzed and spun, and he was on the verge of passing out. It had to be now. If he let this moment go it could take forever to work up the nerve again.

He walked towards the phone, bypassed it, went to his desk instead. He opened a drawer and drew out an old leather writing case that was the only thing he’d ever inherited from a relative. It had belonged to his grandfather. Doyle used it to store important documents. Well, now he’d create a new one. That was what you did when you had a difficult case: you didn't just mull over it all in your head, you wrote out the facts, set things out clearly and logically. Why should this be any different?

Doyle carefully moved aside the letter to his solicitor that was to be posted in the event of his death. It was written on one of the few sheets of heavy, old-fashioned paper that had been in the writing case when it had come into his possession. There were still two pages left. He took one, smoothed it, and lifted his pen. He sat with the nib poised over the paper, back straighter than usual, with nothing but the buzzing in his head.

The first side of the record had finished half an hour ago. The flat was silent except for the crackling of the fire, and a single, dry sob that cut through the air, a sound of frustration rather than grief, as Doyle realised there wasn't a logical thought in his head to be written down. If any actual tears were going to come, they were thankfully not ready to come yet. But nor were any words. Doyle was so tense, he was beyond thinking.

 _Need to calm down ..._

The music had helped earlier. Doyle went back to his stereo, flipped the record over, positioned the needle over the groove, and pressed the button that released the needle down onto the record. Something in his muddled, aching head liked the action. It was an orderly, dependable, almost meditative process. The record and the machinery felt good under his fingers.

Music wound its way through the flat: rich, sumptuous and full. The album was about the progress of a day, and Side Two started with the afternoon.

Doyle went back to his desk, and wrote the date in the top right-hand corner of the paper. Further down, on the left, he wrote one word: _Bodie._

 _Christ, it looks like a letter,_ he thought, then: _Well, why the fuck not?_

But the minutes stretched out, the music took the listener into twilight, and Doyle still hadn’t written anything else.

 _Youll think I’m off my bloody head, writing you a letter,_ he wrote finally. Then he realised he’d left out an apostrophe, and went back to change it. He ground his teeth. If only he hadn't got himself so drunk ...

The music changed again. It was night now, and the most famous track on the album, a song Doyle had known years ago and long forgotten he knew: a song with words that could have been made for this moment.

 _Nights in white satin, never reaching the end,  
Letters I’ve written, never meaning to send._

It was like a call from one soul to another. Doyle, too, was writing a letter. But he _would_ send his. Screw the consequences.

 _I can just hear you now,_ he wrote, and suddenly the words began to tumble out, almost faster than he could write them.

 _Beauty I’ve always missed, with these eyes before ..._

Fat chance. He’d denied it to himself for a while, maybe, but there'd never been a time when he hadn’t thought Bodie was beautiful.

 _Just what the truth is, I can’t say any more.  
‘Cause I love you …_

The flat was filled with music, the crackling of the fire, the scratch of a pen on old paper, and the sporadic drip of tears that Doyle wasn’t even trying to control any more. But at least the letter was no longer difficult to write. Words that had nagged in his mind, torturing him for months, poured out as readily as the ink from the nib. OK, he made a few mistakes; he changed his mind about how to say things, had to pause now and again to quell his shaking hand, rewrite a word or two if a tear fell and smudged the ink — but he still finished the letter in a little under ten minutes. With the album's last rich, swirling chord, Doyle signed his name. By the time the needle lifted itself off the record, coming with a soft clunk to rest, he found he could breathe normally again. He read the letter over.

 _Bodie,_

 _ ~~Youll~~ You’ll think I’m off my bloody head writing you a letter. I can just hear you now — “what do you want to go writing to me for, you see me practically every day? Why not just say it to my face?” You’ll see why in a minute._

 _These past few months have been ~~so w~~ fantastic. Best I’ve ever had. Have I told you that? I’ve thought it often enough. No one can get me going like you can. What you do is amazing but it’s what I do to you too. The other day when we did it sitting up ~~and I~~ — how you looked — oh my God Bodie you looked like a saint in rapture and I am not ~~exger~~ exaggerating. I never saw anything so beautiful ~~in~~ Not ever. ~~Makes me wonder why I bo~~ I never come as hard with a woman as I do with you. ~~I know~~ I’m pretty sure another man wouldn’t do it for me either. Not just that you’re gorgeous. Because ~~you~~ it’s you. All of you and not just the packaging. And it’s all of you I want, not just the ~~fu~~ physical stuff._

 _There it is, the whole point of this letter. You know I want you more every day, but ~~I love~~ I’m in love with you too. It’s ridiculous and it ~~breaks my~~ hurts. You drive me crazy and sometimes I hate you for it. But I love you at the same time. I can’t stop._

 _There it is. I love you and I hate you and that’s what I can’t say to your face._

 _Don’t pity me. I’ll murder you if you pity me. I’m not sending you this because I hope for anything more than what you’re giving me already. I just can’t stand you not knowing any longer. I’m sorry if it means we have to end what we’ve got._

 _Please don’t hate me for it. Not unless you can love me at the same time._

 _  
~~Your R~~   
_

_Ray._

‘Oh God,’ Doyle moaned, putting his hot, aching head in his hands. ‘What was I _thinking?’_

Another flash of humiliated anger, and he swept the papers and writing case off his desk. He took a deep, quivering breath, and for a second, he was on the brink of letting go completely. But pride stopped him.

‘Just go to bed,’ he muttered.

He got down on his hands and knees and picked up the writing case, putting it back on the desk. He smoothed and rearranged the papers. He placed the pen in its holder. Then he closed the case and put it back into the desk drawer. Everything looked as it had before, except that dreaded letter was still face down on the desk. Doyle went to the stereo, switched it off, took the record off the turntable and put it away. Then he threw the letter on the fire, turned on his heel, and stalked off to his bedroom to sleep off the drink, and, he hoped, the mood.

The flat was silent except for the crackling of the fire as it devoured the letter that Doyle had fed to it. The flames snaked up the heavy old paper, gradually turning it to ash, until only the top few inches remained — an address and date, written in the top right-hand corner.

And on the left, further down, two words: _Dear Sir._


	5. Chapter 5

‘It’s funny, you know,’ Bodie said to Doyle, about five weeks later. He spoke lazily, like he was talking as much to the moonlit bedroom as to the man beside him. Wouldn't do to seem too serious straightaway.

‘What is?’ his partner asked sleepily.

‘Us. You ’n’ me.’

‘That is what “us” means, yes,’ Doyle said, somewhat impatiently. ‘Why are we funny? Funny ha ha, or funny strange?’

‘Well, obviously we’re hilarious when we’re in the mood,’ Bodie said wryly. ‘But I was just thinking about how it used to be. Before there was “us”. I s’pose I did have — you know, tendencies.’

‘From what you told me,’ said Doyle, ‘they got squashed pretty quickly by some lousy bastards who wanted it more than you did.’

His tone was savage, possessive, protective. Bodie, flattered, smiled into the darkness. He'd put that trauma — not even that, a _threat_ of one — behind him long ago; now there was just his Ray, angry on his behalf.

‘Well?’ Doyle demanded, when Bodie didn’t answer immediately.

‘Well what?’

‘What were you going to say? Only I’d like to get some sleep. You know, in case we’re expected to resume normal brain function at work any time soon.’

‘I was just going to say,’ replied Bodie, figuring that one more try wouldn’t hurt, ‘that I probably could have ignored anyone else I liked the look of. ‘Cept you — you were different.’

 _Clumsy beginning,_ he chided himself. _Dunno why I can't just come out and say it ... dunno why it needs to be said ..._

But it _did_ need to be said, because Doyle refused to be shown; he didn't _want_ to know what Bodie tried desperately to tell him in every hug, every kiss, every time they ...

‘Irresistible, that’s me,’ Doyle said sleepily. He gave Bodie a companionable nudge. ‘C’mon, Bodie. Don’t be so bloody awkward about it. What’s wrong with us fancying each other?’

‘Nothing,’ Bodie answered, a trifle testily. ‘That’s not what I’m …’

‘And you surely can’t think there’s anything wrong in a night of sex every now and again?’

 _Every now and again?_ Bodie thought. _We’re at it at least twice a week — that’s more than most married couples!_

‘We can stop any time you like, you know,’ Doyle went on. He sounded offended now. ‘Or am I a taboo, just because I’m a bloke? After seven months, you still think of me that way? It’s fucking stupid! All the labels and classifications, queer, straight, bi, they belong to society, not to us, so why bring them into the bedroom, Bodie?’

‘I don’t want to stop,’ protested Bodie. ‘I didn’t say that. I’m not ashamed of us, or you, or me; I’m not bringing any labels anywhere and I _don’t_ see you as a taboo. That’s not what I’m trying to say at all!’

The silence that followed his words was horrible: strained and awkward, but mercifully short.

‘Sorry, mate,’ Doyle muttered. ‘Just tired. Really' — he yawned — 'tired.’

‘Exhaust you, did I?’ Bodie joked, desperate to lighten the mood now.

‘Mmm, in a good way,’ said Doyle. He turned his face towards Bodie and smiled. Bodie couldn’t have stopped himself from smiling back if he’d wanted to.

‘Sorry,’ Doyle said again, through a heavy yawn, ‘what was it you were trying to say?’

‘It’ll keep,’ Bodie reassured him. ‘You’re right, we should get some sleep.’

‘That rhymes,’ Doyle murmured vaguely, yawning again. He closed his eyes. Bodie smiled fondly at him and reached across to ruffle his hair — but stopped short, as he began to snore softly.

 _You wilfully misunderstood me,_ Bodie thought sadly, watching the moonlight playing across his partner’s sleeping face. _I was just trying to tell you I love you, you stubborn, thick-headed git. But you wouldn’t want to hear that anyway, would you?_


	6. Chapter 6

For approximately six weeks after the Barry Martin affair, matters in CI5's jurisdiction were unusually quiet. George Cowley had had nothing to give his best team but deadly dull surveillance work. Bodie was philosophical about it, nodding and raising his whisky glass when Cowley used the phrase "calm before the storm", but Doyle was champing at the bit. Usually it was the other way round. Cowley had assumed Doyle would get over the Martin thing more quickly than this, and he was starting to wonder if something else was wrong — something between 3.7 and 4.5, perhaps. They seemed to be working together just as well as ever, and getting on well enough most of the time, too: Bodie with his easy, big-kid-like affection for his partner, and Doyle, who might not have been so demonstrative, but his eyes followed Bodie constantly: visual evidence of the intense awareness each man had of the other, the loyalty and friendship they shared.

It was a major reason why Bodie and Doyle were Cowley's best men. Despite them both being fiercely independent men, and in many ways very different from each other, they'd both taken with reasonable ease to the close, interdependent partnership that their job demanded. They had respected each other's abilities from the start, but that respect had gradually flowered into friendship, and a mutual protectiveness that was touching even to Cowley's cynical soul: perhaps _because_ of that cynicism. It was more obvious with Bodie, perhaps, but Cowley had seen it quite recently in Doyle. When Bodie had been stabbed — the way Doyle had behaved when Cowley had threatened to pull him off the case — that kind of loyalty could be fatal if it hindered efficiency, but Doyle was a good man, and his attachment to Bodie had only made him more determined to do his job.

Just lately, though, Cowley caught Doyle looking at Bodie, when Bodie wasn't watching, and there was something else in his eyes: deep, unmistakeable resentment.

 _Resentment, aye,_ Cowley thought to himself, _and quite some regret, too._

But whatever might or might not have been wrong with Doyle during those weeks, it didn't seem to be affecting his ability to do his job, and until it did, Cowley considered it none of his business. He still thought fondly of Doyle, and of Bodie. What a shame, then, that when all was said and done, his best team, like all the others, was expendable.

Cowley looked at the file on his desk. The picture inside was of Henry Charles Rankine, one-time British subject, now Soviet citizen, and a double agent who'd gone rogue on both sides about ten years ago. CI5 had been in its infancy when Cowley, using his old Special Forces contacts, had taken top-secret orders to cooperate with Moscow in putting Rankine away for good. But he'd escaped from prison in Siberia and made his way to Britain. The word on the grapevine was that he had put a new group of men together: British men with a grudge against the establishment. Rankine was baying for Cowley's blood, and no one quite knew what he'd do to get it.

What Cowley _did_ know, however, was that Rankine's group had raised its head in London. They were leaving an obvious trail, _too_ obvious for Cowley's liking. Rankine, in all probability, wanted to be found.

 _But there's only one way to find out why he's laying me this trap,_ Cowley mused. _Spring it._

He picked up the receiver of his telephone.

'2.4., this is Alpha 1. Who's on standby at the moment?'

'Lucas and McCabe, sir,' came the brisk reply.

'Right. I want them on Bodie and Doyle's assignment. Tell them to relieve 3.7 and 4.5 of their duties immediately. And 3.7 and 4.5 are to report to my office immediately, is that clear?'

'Perfectly clear, sir.'

'Good. Thank you.'

Cowley rang off, and nodded to himself. Yes. Rankine was a slippery fish. This was a job he'd only trust to his best men.


	7. Chapter 7

'Harry Rankine, eh?' said Bodie, as he and Doyle left Cowley's office and walked out to where Bodie's silver Ford Capri was parked. He nudged his partner and grinned. 'Well you said you wanted some excitement.'

'Excitement, yeah,' said Doyle. 'Was planning on living long enough to get home for tea though, dunno 'bout you.'

'Tea and sympathy,' said Bodie, for no reason in particular, as he put the car in gear and pulled out onto the main road. He took the corner too fast, and Doyle, slouched in his seat as usual, jerked forward, and glared at him.

'Won't get much sympathy out of me, mate. Or rather, Cowley won't. Why us, eh?'

'We're the best,' Bodie replied arrogantly.

'Yeah, until we're dead.' Doyle's tone was sour. 'I tell you, Bodie, I don't like it. I don't like it one bit.'

'What's wrong?' Bodie asked in surprise. 'It's just a tail and arrest job. We follow the lead Cowley got from Special Branch, try and locate Rankine, and when we do, we bring him back to the old man for a touch of CI5 hospitality. He'll probably be deported back to Russia, end of case. I'm just happy to be out of that obbo van, personally. Lucas and McCabe are welcome to it. One more CI5 sandwich, mate, and I'd've faded away in protest.'

Bodie's speech was rewarded with a slight smile, but it wasn't enough.

'Seriously, Ray, what's the matter?' he asked more gently. He took his hand off the gearstick and broke what was usually an unspoken rule between them — no touching in _that_ way while on the job. He gave Doyle a quick, reassuring squeeze, just above the knee.

'Shouldn't touch me,' Doyle muttered, more a reflex than an actual reaction.

'Wish I could when you're like this,' Bodie replied softly, unable to help the sudden fit of sentimentality. If Doyle noticed it, though, he gave no indication.

'Well you just did,' he said shortly. Then he sighed. 'Sorry. Don't worry about me, Bodie, I've just got a bad feeling today, that's all.'

'Premonition?' Bodie asked.

He shrugged. 'Dunno.'

'Just have to keep an eye on you, won't I?' Bodie said lightly.

'You always do,' Doyle answered in the same tone. Then he did something he'd never done before: he reached over and took Bodie's hand, squeezed it tightly, then let go and turned his face away.

* * * * *

It was getting more difficult, there was no doubt about that. Doyle was taking it out on Bodie, too, when what he really wanted to do was lavish affection on him, tell him a string of ridiculously soppy things that he'd never felt the remotest desire to tell anyone before, and probably wouldn’t even want to tell Bodie more than once. Top of the list, though, was what Doyle had _always_ wanted to tell someone, or rather, he'd always wanted someone to tell it to. And despite occasionally trying to convince himself otherwise, he'd never felt it for anyone before Bodie. Doyle was starting to think he'd never feel it for anyone else, either. He was trapped in an endless cycle of pain and pleasure, unable to let go of the casual relationship he and Bodie had, but hurting from it at the same time.

He felt he'd given away something there, taking Bodie's hand. But at least Bodie hadn't objected. Actually, as naturally demonstrative as he was, Bodie probably wouldn't notice if Doyle got slightly more affectionate from time to time, in the odd moments when he just couldn't stop himself.

Doyle had little time to think about it after they pulled up outside the address Cowley had given them. He slumped down further in his seat, enjoying the warmth of a comfortable old leather jacket. Autumn was fading into winter; nights and mornings were getting colder. He felt cold deep in his bones that day.

 _Probably all it is,_ he thought. _Not feeling funny about the op. Probably just cold ..._

That, and the fact that after weeks of mind-numbing inactivity, he and Bodie had been sent on the tail of a notorious spy-turned-terrorist who'd been known for his cunning and cruelty, his skill in evading the law, before a fledgling CI5 had put the brakes on him. And he'd escaped from one of the toughest Soviet prisons. It wasn't a cream puff they were chasing after.

 _Whatever Bodie thinks,_ Doyle mused, _Rankine is_ not _going to be easy to bring in ..._ and then his inner voice turned abruptly into Bodie ... _Jesus Christ, Doyle, you're_ scared, _aren't you? Is that bloody all?_

Doyle tried not to smile. It was the sort of thing Bodie _would_ have said, if they'd had the conversation out loud. Having been in various kinds of life-and-death situations since he was a teenager, Bodie was philosophical about fear. No point in pretending you didn't feel it, but better not to show it. The Bodie Book of Survival Tips, page one ... _Christ, if it weren't for all-night obbos, I might not know the bugger at all ..._

'There,' Bodie said suddenly, pointing to two men coming out of a building across the street. 'That's two of 'em. D'you reckon Rankine's in the building?'

'I doubt it,' said Doyle. _'He_ wouldn't be anywhere so easy to find, so in the middle of everything. Would he?’

'So we follow?' Bodie asked, his voice more urgent now as the two men got into a beige Triumph Herald that was parked almost parallel to the Capri.

It was a split-second decision.

'Yes.'

'Right,' said Bodie, and put the car into gear, tailing the Triumph at a discreet distance.


	8. Chapter 8

The men didn't seem to detect that they were being followed. Bodie drove for over an hour, tailing them right out of the city.

‘Dammit, they’re bound to clock us,’ Doyle growled, clenching his fists. ‘That is, if they haven’t already and they’re not just leading us on a wild goose chase. They could speed up any minute.’

‘Well in that case you’d better hold on to your curls, Shirley,’ Bodie replied offhandedly, not in the least worried about his ability to catch a 1969 Triumph, which could do eighty-five on a good day, in a mark 2 Capri.

As they approached a narrow T-junction, the Triumph suddenly squealed to a halt, as another Capri, a red X-Pack, came shooting in from the right and stopped, blocking any passage in that direction. The Triumph didn’t attempt to turn left, though it could easily have done so. Its position blocked the passage left, so Bodie, in an attempt to preserve his cover, sounded his horn. The two men in the Triumph got out, and simultaneously, the driver of the red Capri did the same. They all reached into their jackets …

‘DOWN!’ yelled Bodie. He and Doyle both ducked just as the three men opened fire, shattering Bodie’s windscreen. Bodie flung open the driver’s side door and fired from around it. Two of the men retreated around the cars for cover, while another vaulted a gate on the left side of the road. Bodie saw him take off across the field, but the man was soon out of his eyeline.

Doyle looked across, through the open car, at Bodie, hesitating, waiting for confirmation. He seemed uncharacteristically uneasy.

‘Well go on, what are you waiting for?’ Bodie bellowed impatiently, and fired another few shots, covering Doyle. The bullets all glanced across the red Capri’s bonnet. Doyle broke out from behind the passenger door and ran to the gate, vaulting it without pause. Even in the midst of the firefight, Bodie felt a flash of admiration for his partner. Doyle didn’t run across the field in the direction the man had run, however; he veered off left. Bodie didn’t have time to wonder why. He ducked behind the door, wincing as a bullet shattered the glass of the driver’s side window. He slapped a fresh clip into his pistol and peered around the side, then threw his head back just in time as a bullet whizzed past his right ear. Breathing hard, shaken by the near miss and the knowledge that he was on his own for the moment, he peered upwards this time, over the rim of the shattered window, and was about to fire again, when he saw something that stopped him abruptly.

Doyle, a hessian bag over his head, hands in the air, was being marched through the gate and across in front of Bodie. The man who’d run away was holding a gun at his back with one hand, while the other held the opening of the bag shut tight at the nape of Doyle's neck.

‘Hold it!’ he yelled to Bodie. ‘Any funny business and one of us’ll put a bullet in him! You can’t shoot all three of us at once!’

Bodie had no choice but to crouch there and watch as the three men bundled themselves and Doyle into the red Capri, and set off at top speed, engine revving and tyres squealing.

‘Damn you!’ Bodie muttered. He threw himself into his car, yanked both doors shut, and drove after them, his own tyres shrieking as he took the right turn as fast as he could. They only had a second’s head start, but their car had a faster top speed than Bodie’s. He could see it, streaking down the road about a hundred yards ahead of him. Bodie gunned the engine, knowing he could at least keep the thing in sight, and they’d have to stop sooner or later ...

‘Should have shot the fucking tyres out!’ Bodie thumped the wheel in anger at his own stupidity. Doyle had been right to be uneasy. The whole thing had been a trap — and they’d fallen for it like a pair of novices. Or, Bodie had, and Doyle had followed him.

‘Moron, you fucking moron!’ Bodie yelled at himself. He felt the familiar twisting pain in his stomach: the sort of panic that only fear for his partner’s safety was able to inspire. The first time he’d felt it, it had bothered him — frightened him, even. He’d thought, then, that his feelings for Doyle were platonic, nothing more than a deepening friendship born of their working lives, mingled with a well-trained instinct to guard his partner’s back. But even then he’d felt too involved. He’d never been that attached to anyone, and he hadn’t wanted to start getting that way. But now, speeding at over a hundred miles an hour down a narrow country road, he knew exactly what his feelings were, and his fear wasn’t at his involvement with another human being. It was all for Doyle.

‘You’d better leave him be, you bastards,’ Bodie growled.

He saw the red Capri turn towards an abandoned airfield. So that was where Rankine was hiding. That figured. It was just the sort of place where a piece of shit like him would go to ground. Bodie grabbed the radio mouthpiece and got a message through to Cowley. He gave his location, said the men had Doyle, that there could be a hostage situation, that he was giving chase but needed reinforcements.

‘That’s an hour away, Bodie. Stake out the place, but stay clear until backup arrives, do you hear me?’

‘I hear you, sir, but they’ve got Doyle in there, what if …’

‘Bodie! If you go charging in there you’ll most likely get both of you killed! Use your common sense, 3.7. Wait.’

‘Sir,’ Bodie muttered.

 _‘Do you read me, Bodie?’_

‘Roger, sir. 3.7 out.’

Bodie thumped the wheel again. The red Capri was slowing now. He was closing in on it. Cowley didn’t know what he was talking about. He didn’t know the lie of the land. Bodie knew that if he could catch up with them before they entered one of the buildings, he’d be able to distract them long enough to give Doyle a chance to get free. Then they could fight their way out, get away to a safe distance and keep up a steady flow of fire to prevent Rankine’s escape. Then when backup arrived they could mop up the whole affair. it was all very clear in Bodie’s mind as he watched the red car pulling in close to a dilapidated-looking hangar. He came to a stop about fifty paces away, pulled out his gun, and fired, taking out the left front tyre of the enemy Capri. Someone fired through the car window at him and he ducked. Under the covering fire, the other two men got out of the car, one of them dragging Doyle with him at gunpoint. The bag was gone from his head, but he now had his hands cuffed behind his back, and was looking distinctly groggy, as if he’d been hit or drugged.

Bodie knew he couldn’t let them get Doyle into the hangar, where it would be ten times as hard to rescue him. Perhaps harder. Doyle clearly wasn’t in any state to fight back. Bodie let loose a rapid burst of gunfire, then threw himself forward, literally dodging bullets, rolling out the way of a barrage of returning fire. He caught the first gunman in the arm, and he fell back. So far, so good. The man holding Doyle was too close to be worth the risk, but the other … Bodie fired; his target ducked, and the bullet struck the wall of the hangar. In the moment of confusion Bodie threw himself forward another few feet …

He was forced to find cover at the sound of machine gun fire. Bullets peppered the ground where his feet had been only moments before. It was coming from the window of a shed behind Bodie; turning briefly, he could see the muzzle of the gun poking out, firing continuously. Under its protection, Doyle's kidnappers hustled him into the hangar. Bodie tried to follow, but the machine gun kept him back. It must have been about a minute before the firing finally stopped. For a second, Bodie agonised over what to do: go straight after Doyle and risk being shot when the gunman behind him resumed his assault, or go for the gunman and risk losing Doyle in the meantime?

‘If one of us goes ...’ Bodie muttered.

He started to run forward.

* * * * *

They’d jabbed some sort of tranquilliser into Doyle. His head ached as he fought to stay awake. He knew Bodie was trying to get to him, and he wanted desperately to help, to kick out now that he could see, disarm his assailant, join in the fight — but his legs just wouldn’t work. Amidst a rain of bullets, he realised he was being manhandled again, shoved forward, ushered into the hangar, out of sight of Bodie. Doyle felt an irrational burst of fear for them both.

Once inside, there was a flurry of activity. The doors of the hangar were locked. What Doyle saw horrified him. In the middle of the concrete floor lay a group of bodies: five men, all dead. They were wired up to what looked like enough gelignite to blow the building to kingdom come. Several feet to the right was a trap door, through which electric light was emanating, and a flight of steps, easily visible, leading down.

‘What the fuck?’ he asked dimly.

Where was Bodie? He always made it in time. Surely he wouldn’t let Doyle end up in that pile of bodies, while the kidnappers, whoever they were — Rankine’s men, he supposed — retreated underground, blowing the place sky high for mysterious reasons of their own. Doyle knew that was the plan as soon as the three men made their way in that direction. What he hadn’t banked on was himself being taken with them. As soon as they had him inside the hangar they dragged him to the trap door, but rather than shoving him down the steps immediately, they paused to un-cuff his hands. Doyle was bewildered. What the hell were they trying to do?

‘Move and you’re dead,’ one of them warned, pointing his gun straight between Doyle’s eyes. But although he hated to admit it, Doyle doubted that he could have fought them with the drug coursing through his system. He felt faintly outraged when one of them yanked his jacket — his favourite leather jacket — off his shoulders, and the silver chain from around his neck. and tossed both onto the ground near the pile of bodies. The man bent down and pressed something, then straightened quickly, sweat beading on his brow.

‘Fifteen seconds,’ he said urgently. ‘GO!’

Then Doyle was being shoved down the steps, one man in front of him and two behind, and one of them pressed a switch that was on the wall at the bottom, and the trap door, made of concrete and steel, shut swiftly and almost soundlessly.

Five seconds of silence. Then a rumble, which sounded like it was very far away, but the pressure in Doyle's head became unbearable and he slumped to the floor.

 _Bodie’s going to think I’ve died,_ was the last thing he thought before he fainted.

* * * * *

Bodie was blown backwards with the force of the blast, onto the bonnet of his car. Winded, he could only stare in horror as the explosion consumed the old hangar. He felt intense heat on his face, almost enough to burn. The red Capri, parked close to the hangar, exploded a few seconds later. Then Bodie was overwhelmed by the smell of burning rubber and wood, and worst of all, human hair and flesh. There were no screams, not a human sound, only the hissing and crackling of flames. Obviously everyone in the building had been killed instantly. That explosion would have spared no one.

Anger and anguish ripped through Bodie, threatening to tear him in two. Over the roar of the blaze, he screamed Ray’s name.

* * * * *

Safely back in his office, Cowley looked with regret upon the haggard face of the living half of his best team. Bodie seemed to have aged about ten years in the five hours since the explosion. Cowley felt upset enough: he’d watched as forensics and ambulancemen retrieved what was left of the five dead men from the ruins of the hangar. Just a few, unidentifiable, charred pieces. They’d also retrieved the remains of three things recognisable as Doyle’s: his keys, his silver chain and his leather jacket, all of which Bodie had positively identified as belonging to his partner. Now, as Cowley sat at his desk, watching the restless figure in front of him, he noticed something that touched him deeply. One of the charred scraps of black leather had been bunched up and tied with a shoelace, and was hanging around Bodie’s neck. Cowley wouldn’t have minded betting that the blackened half of Doyle’s silver chain was inside the makeshift bag. He sighed, wishing he didn’t have to get on with practical things. The poor man looked utterly lost — grief-stricken, obviously, but unwilling or unable to express it. Understandable. But this conversation wouldn’t be easy for either of them.

‘Bodie, there’s no next of kin on Doyle’s records here,’ Cowley told him. ‘His GP has an emergency contact listed, but it’s you. Do you know if he had any family – is there a girlfriend who needs to be told?’

‘Far as I know he didn’t have anyone,’ said Bodie. His voice sounded hollow. ‘No girl either, no one special, not just now.’

‘All right,’ said Cowley. ‘In that case, someone will need to go to his flat, go through his things. There’ll be paperwork that needs sorting through, any records of unfinished business, of people close to him …’

‘I’ll do that, sir,’ Bodie said quickly. ‘If I could have those keys …’

‘Yes,’ said Cowley, nodding at Bodie with an understanding expression on his face. ‘I wanted to give you the opportunity to volunteer, Bodie. For your sake but also for practicality’s sake. You knew Doyle best.’

Bodie nodded stiffly, putting his hand out for the keys. Cowley took them from the top drawer of his desk and handed them over. Agent 3.7 stalked out of his office without another word.


	9. Chapter 9

Bodie took his time getting to Doyle's flat. He took a ‘scenic’ detour, and stopped for fish and chips — which he tossed into the nearest bin as soon as he smelt the food. The very thought of eating made him feel ill. He could still remember the smell of the explosion too well.

He wasn’t sure why exactly he was putting the task off. It would have to be done, and better him than anyone else. He didn’t want anyone else touching Doyle's stuff. He was _his_ partner, _his_ friend, _his_ — whatever he'd been.

Bodie wasn’t in denial: Doyle was dead. He’d lost friends and lovers alike in his twenty-nine years, more than he cared to remember. None of them, however, had meant as much to him as Doyle. Bodie wondered vaguely what being amongst Doyle’s possessions would do to him. He didn’t feel particularly upset now. A sense of deep sadness, of regret, of loss, permeated him in an abstract sort of way. It had been that, rather than anything more sentimental, that had made him sling the leather and silver around his neck. But then, Bodie wasn’t a particularly emotional man. His ability to fall for someone at all, let alone as hard as he had seemed to fall for Doyle, had surprised and discomfited him. He felt oddly guilty that he wasn’t more upset. Doyle, after all, had cried when Bodie had been stabbed. And Doyle hadn't even been in love; he was just a normal bloke who got attached to his mates, whose pain affected him, whose well-being was a concern for him.

Bodie knew that he wasn’t normal. He’d heard it often enough from army and CI5 psychiatrists, even a quack he’d gone to see once of his own volition, just to see if she said the same as the government-appointed ones did. (She had.) Nor did he have any real problem with the way he was. He knew he wasn’t callous, as most people assumed he was. It wasn’t any lack of feeling that was keeping his mind clear and his eyes dry. His past had damaged him. He couldn’t cope with certain degrees of emotional pain, so he shut them out — or buried them so quickly and so deeply that they were locked away forever. Scholarly opinion was divided on that subject. What Bodie knew was that he wouldn’t weep for Doyle. Not that he didn’t feel his loss enough, just that William Andrew Philip Bodie didn’t cry. He was fairly sure he _couldn’t._ He doubted his tear ducts even worked any more.

As he drove, finally making for Doyle's flat, Bodie tested the waters in his own head, forcing himself to face the day’s events.

 _Ray's dead._

 _My partner’s dead._

 _The man I …._

That thought wouldn’t compute.

 _So maybe I didn’t … after all._

It would certainly be easier, if that were true.

Bodie tried to conjure up a picture of Doyle's face. With a nasty jolt of shock, he realised he couldn’t.

‘Oh my God,’ he said aloud. ‘I’m going insane.’

He pulled up outside the place where Doyle currently lived — _had_ lived, he reminded himself. He got out, shut and locked the car door, and went up. Doyle's keys lay forgotten in the glove box. Bodie was so used to letting himself in. When he did, he shivered. The flat was cold and dark. Bodie flicked on lights and turned on the radiator in the living room. He looked around: the place was in its usual state of friendly, homey, organised chaos. It seemed for all the world as if Doyle had popped out to the shops, like it was just one of the many evenings when they’d met here for food and drinks, conversation, companionable silences, coffee, games, music, sex and TV. That thought made the sex seem relatively unimportant. Bodie supposed it had been, really. It was only one of many things that made their relationship what it was.

What it came down to, on Bodie’s side at least, was that while Doyle had been alive, there was no one with whom he would rather have spent his time. Birds were all right, a nice diversion, and he certainly hadn’t stopped fancying them when he’d started sleeping with his partner. But it wasn’t the same. Doyle was someone who knew him, who understood, who accepted, who liked him — perhaps even loved him, in his way — unconditionally. He was the first person Bodie thought of telling when he had some good news, or, on the other hand, when he needed someone to drown his sorrows with. He was someone to come home to after a bad day. When, a few weeks ago, Bodie had dared to reach out, and Doyle had responded by cancelling his plans and being there to hold him, Bodie had wondered, tentatively, whether his feelings might be reciprocated after all. It had seemed so good, so natural and comfortable, and it had seemed to be those things to Doyle, too. But when nothing had changed afterwards, Bodie had realised that Doyle was just being a good friend that night, and the fact that they had a sexual relationship just meant he could express it in a more physical way than normal.

 _He was a good friend,_ Bodie thought. _Irritating as hell, sometimes, but when it came down to it, best mate a bloke could ask for. Sexy little bastard, too — couldn’t help fancying him — good thing he fancied me back. Inevitable really, him and me. He told me I was beautiful once, in a jokey sort of way. So was he. In an unconventional sort of way. ‘Cept I can’t picture him just now. Can I?_

He tried again. And this time, Doyle's face swam across his thoughts as easily as it ever had.

 _Thank Christ for that, I’m_ not _crazy,_ he thought in relief. Examining the image in his mind’s eye, he added, aloud: ‘Fuck, he was beautiful though.’

 _But he’s dead._

 _The man I love is dead._

The thought finally surfaced. And Bodie felt — not grief, exactly, but _pain._ It rushed from the base of his spine, spreading through his lungs and chest so that he could hardly breathe for a second or two, then shooting up to his head. It was so intense that Bodie felt dizzy: his legs went weak and his head spun and he had to clutch a nearby sideboard momentarily to keep himself upright.

 _What the fuck?_ Was something seriously wrong with him? Had he hit his head during the explosion, and not noticed? But no, his head was clear enough.

 _So this is what mourning is like,_ he thought.

‘Well, I’ve no time for that,’ he said aloud. He strode purposely over to Doyle's desk. It was neatly arranged compared with the rest of the flat: clear except for a few bills, unopened, in a wooden letter rack, and a couple of Doyle's toy soldiers. The rest must have been put away somewhere.

‘I’ll bequeath ‘em to you,’ Doyle had joked, when Bodie had first noticed them.

‘Take you up on that, mate,’ Bodie whispered into the silence.

It occurred to him that Doyle had probably made a will, and that it would be in the desk, or with his solicitor. Bodie wondered who the executor was. He and Doyle had never discussed that sort of thing, but he would need to know now. He opened the top drawer of the desk. The first thing he saw was a battered old leather writing case. He couldn’t see any other papers that looked immediately relevant, so he took the case out and laid it on the desktop. He opened it. An old–fashioned fountain pen was tucked into the side, and the case was overflowing with papers that had been stuffed in higgledy-piggledy, as if in a rush. Bodie frowned: that wasn’t like Doyle. Had someone been into his things? Surely not. No one could get in, and even if they’d managed it, and got in and out while Doyle was away from home, there was no way they could have got in and out without Doyle realising that he’d had unwanted visitors.

But perhaps Doyle had dropped the case and had no time to sort all his stuff out properly, Bodie considered, as he moved a sheet of blank, heavy, old–fashioned paper, and a letter of recommendation from Scotland Yard. Perhaps he …

He stopped and stared at the paper underneath. It was a letter dated about five weeks ago: the address and date written in the top right-hand corner. And on the left, further down, a name: _Bodie._

Bodie picked up the letter and walked across the room, unable to bear keeping still as he read it, with its smudged ink, its multiple crossings-out and corrections. It looked like Doyle had either been very drunk or very upset when he wrote it: perhaps both. Bodie sat down heavily on Doyle's couch as he took in what the letter was telling him. He saw the words ‘I love you,’ written twice. He saw the sense of hopelessness: Doyle had expected nothing in return for this. He'd felt how Bodie had felt: it had needed to be said. It wasn't like when one said it to a woman — a milestone in a relationship, or a device to secure a bed partner — it had needed to be said because heaven and hell were both better than limbo. It was a reality that had to be faced up to.

The tragedy was that neither of them had realised they were living in the same reality until it was too late.

But the worst part of all for Bodie, was the end of the letter: the words 'Your Ray,' albeit crossed out, because even a drunk Doyle would have found that too much ... but he'd thought it; he'd written it ... _mine all along, and I didn't ..._

‘Ray?’

Bodie spoke the word to the empty room. He spoke it with the tiniest flicker of hope, that maybe the whole day had been a bad dream and Doyle would come walking in from the kitchen, toss Bodie a can of lager and sit down on the couch beside him. He’d be cool and unconcerned until he saw the letter in Bodie’s hand. Then, before he went nuclear at Bodie for snooping, Bodie would tell him it was OK — everything was going to be all right, because his feelings weren’t unrequited as he'd believed, and Bodie was his for the taking.

It would have been a wonderful moment. But Doyle didn’t walk into the room. Doyle was dead. That moment could never happen.

Something dropped onto the page in Bodie’s hand, and the page began to shake. It took Bodie a moment to realise what was happening. He was peppering the heavy, old-fashioned paper with tears, and they were falling more thickly every second. His hands were shaking uncontrollably. The nauseating ache of mourning was gripping him. His heart pounded in his chest; his pulse throbbed painfully in his temples.

Bodie's first sob surprised him, and he tried to stop, but it was no good. He collapsed sideways on the couch, utterly overcome by the grief and pain that was caused by love, and death, and the death of love, triggered by the knowledge that not only had Doyle fallen as hard for him as he had for Doyle, but that it had hurt him so much. Doyle had sat at his desk and wept, and poured out his heart in a letter to Bodie that he’d never sent — probably never intended to send. Bodie had been the cause of that hurt. He’d inspired the tears that stained the paper, now mingled with a few of Bodie’s own. And why not? It was the closest he would ever come to being one with Doyle again.

Agonised cries rent the air, convulsing through the pale, muscular body lying full length on the couch. It didn’t occur to Bodie that he hadn’t cried in nearly fifteen years, and that he’d thought only minutes ago that he was no longer capable of it. Nothing occurred to him at all. He was completely out of control — lost. His sobs wracked his body until his stomach and back muscles were screaming; they came so fast and so hard that he barely had time to breathe, only managing sporadic deep, wet, painful gasps. He would have been disgusted with himself if he'd remembered how to be, but just then there was no pride, no dignity, no shame. There was only himself, and despair.

Just Bodie. But that wasn’t right. Not anymore. The lone wolf, the ‘look out for number one’ Bodie: _he_ no longer existed. Bodie without Doyle? It was unthinkable. No matter how their relationship had turned out, it would still have been them, somehow. It wasn’t just work, it was _life_ that Bodie had to face without his partner. And though somewhere deep down he knew he’d survive — because he always did — he wasn’t just weeping for Doyle then, not just mourning the loss of friend, partner, lover. It was irrational, and it wouldn’t last. But that night on Doyle's couch, with a love letter lying on the floor beside him, Bodie felt horribly afraid.


	10. Chapter 10

The near-freezing water cascaded over Doyle's naked, bruised body, washing away the blood that the beatings had drawn. He gasped in shock at the cold, and began to shiver violently: an instinctive reaction. The next bucketful, filled from a hose connected to a tap in the corner of the ten foot square concrete room, went over his head, filling his nostrils and sending hard–tasting water straight to the back of his throat, mingled with the blood that had flowed from his nose when one of the men had hit him. He flipped himself onto his front and coughed, spitting out water and blood-streaked mucus. He saw the booted feet of the men surrounding him, heard their laughter. Doyle felt humiliated, but that was the least of his worries. He knew things wouldn’t be improving for him. Unless he gave them what they wanted.

Two pairs of feet moved. A boot came down painfully into the small of Doyle's back, holding him still. He heard someone kneel behind him, and flinched as hands pinched his buttocks, then spread them, forcing his legs apart at the same time.

‘Shit,’ he whispered, hating the quiver in his voice.

‘You will,’ said one of the men. Laughter rang out, the sound bouncing off the walls.

Then Doyle emitted something between a gasp and a high-pitched cry, as the end of the hose was shoved unceremoniously into his anus. The invasion appalled him. It was scarcely better than a rape — it _was_ a rape, essentially, although Doyle knew he'd rather be forced with a hose than a cock. He even managed to feel slightly relieved.

‘You gonna tell us what we want to know? Hmm?’

That was Rankine himself. He knelt down, peering into Doyle's face. Doyle stared back at him, wide-eyed, unable to hide his fear and discomfort.

‘You don’t have to go through all this. And it’s only going to get worse for you, you know. Just tell us how to get to Cowley.’

‘Fuck you,’ Doyle muttered.

‘No, Mr Doyle. Fuck _you.’_

Doyle saw Rankine nod at the man near the tap, and shut his eyes, gritting his teeth as a jet of water shot up inside him. It lasted just a second or two, but it was cold and hard, and it hurt. He took a deep, shaky breath, fighting the urge to sob out loud. He clamped his mouth shut for the second assault, but he couldn’t stop himself crying out on the third, which lasted longer. The water was filling him, bloating him: too much, too cold, too fast. His stomach had expanded so he looked pregnant. Doyle moaned with pain. Stupidly, he wanted to scream for Bodie. It was humiliating to be this helpless, but Bodie was the one man Doyle didn’t mind depending on. And after hours of beatings, calculated to hurt but not to maim, so clearly the beginnings of a long process of torture — he was just about beyond caring. He'd had cause to be frightened in his life, certainly, but nothing like this; he’d never been as defenceless as this. He could admit when he needed rescuing. Surely if he could make his voice loud enough, Bodie would hear him somehow — come for him? Wouldn’t he? Bodie wouldn’t be fooled by the hangar exploding; he wouldn’t believe Doyle was dead. He would come and save him, wouldn’t he?

The water stopped; the hose was removed, and the boot left Doyle's back, kicking him onto his side, then connecting with his swollen stomach. With the added pressure of too much water, the blow was agony. Doyle half-grunted, half-sobbed, curling himself instinctively into the foetal position. He could feel and smell the foul liquid gushing out of him, and he could hear the laughter of the men around him. Someone aimed a kick at his lower back and he cried out, but there was no position he could assume, nowhere he could crawl that would be safe. There was one thing on his mind now, and that was not giving in. No matter what else they did to him, he wouldn’t give them what they wanted.

* * * * *

Bodie felt ill when he awoke, sometime in the small hours of the morning. His ravaged throat hurt him; his stomach was tight; his eyes ached and itched. Raising his hands to his face, he felt the dried tears on his cheeks. His eyelids were swollen and his nose and chest were clogged, as if he'd swallowed half a ton of mucus.

 _Need to get up,_ he thought. _Stretch my legs. Think I'm gonna throw up._

He swallowed hard when he remembered where he was, and why he was feeling like this.

 _Actually,_ he reconsidered, _maybe I'll just keep lying here._

For what was the point in doing anything else?

* * * * *

Doyle had lain on the concrete floor of his cell, in complete darkness, for what felt like days. He was still wet from his previous ordeal, and he was shivering with cold. There was no sense of time passing, no sound except the occasional creak in the exposed plumbing on the wall of his cell. He'd been able to hear movement upstairs initially, echoing through the pipes, but there had been nothing like that for a long time.

The men had watched him, jeering, as his stomach returned to its normal size, and the water that had been inside his body flooded the floor. Rankine had tossed him a mop and bucket afterwards, and they'd made him clean the mess up, offering a kick now and again, or tripping him up. Doyle's instinct to kill had nearly overcame him in the face of his anger and humiliation. But he'd forced himself to be meek. He had to think carefully about how to play this.

He'd been taught how to withstand torture, of course: all CI5 agents had. But this wasn't a usual sort of situation. Rankine had faked his death. He clearly wanted to be sure that no one would come looking for Doyle, so there was no hope of a rescue or exchange. If they weren't so intent on getting information out of him themselves, Doyle might have feared being sold across the Iron Curtain. But any information they got, Rankine would have used against CI5 before Doyle could be induced to give the Russians anything. And Cowley would update protocol, so by the time any major operation could be mounted, the information would be out of date.

The fact that his death had been faked also told Doyle that any information they got from torturing him would be used in such a way that Cowley wouldn't guess where it had come from until it was too late. If they caught Rankine or any of his henchmen, Doyle would in all likelihood be dead before CI5 got it out of them that the explosion had been a ruse.

No, it was clear enough. They'd torture him until he gave them what they wanted; then they'd kill him. Or, if he _didn't_ give them what they wanted, they'd torture him to death. The only hope lay not in holding out, but breaking — or rather, _pretending_ to break.

Somehow, Doyle needed to give them something that would set off warning bells in Cowley's head. He'd think of something. His head was clear enough. He had conducted a crude self–examination when Rankine and the others had left him alone. He ached all over, inside and out, but they hadn't done him any serious damage. They were skilled. If Rankine had been handed to the Russians, he'd have learnt torture by experience. He'd know how to start, how to build up. Start with a beating, especially if the victim's used to violence — as Doyle was. Make him think he can cope. Then hit him with something else, something shocking and humiliating, painful but not crippling. Demoralise the victim. Then leave him in the dark, to worry about what's coming next. Leave him cold and wet, shaken and frightened, so that his lack of broken bones and organ damage aren't a comfort; they add fuel to the fear.

Even Doyle, who knew all the tricks and could plan to accommodate them, was having trouble holding off panic. He remembered their first training session, over two years ago now. It was often a make-or-break point for new agents. Cowley, the trainers, even the more experienced agents, worked with looks and whispers and ugly rumours to make the sessions seem as mysterious and daunting as possible. Raw recruits had little idea what to expect, and by the time their turns came, they were half-expecting to be tortured: to have to learn by doing, as it were. Doyle, who had started thinking CI5 would stop at nothing to make its men the best there was, remembered how, on the other hand, Bodie had been unstintingly confident. Until they'd been deprived of sleep for forty-eight hours, blindfolded, driven to an unknown location, and locked in a cell with unspeakable sounds echoing around them from the neighbouring rooms. They were recordings, of course, but in their disoriented state, neither Bodie nor Doyle would have bet on that at the time. They heard the shrill drone of machines, someone shouting out questions, the sickening sound of cracking bones, the splashing of water, the whimpers and screams of helpless victims.

Ironically, though, one of Doyle's fondest memories was of that night. He'd known Bodie two months then, and their partnership was starting to solidify. Sitting together on the floor of that cell, Bodie had suddenly shifted over, putting himself back-to-back with Doyle.

'Lean on me, mate,' he'd said, in a gentle tone that Doyle had only rarely heard him use. 'It'll be all right.'

Doyle still remembered the feel of Bodie's broad back pressed against his, the warmth and security, and protectiveness too, that he'd felt as they leaned on each other. He'd felt like they could take on anything. And there had been something else: a feeling he didn't acknowledge until much later. Now, in retrospect, Doyle dated his falling for Bodie from that moment. But despite the comfort that their physical proximity had offered, they'd both still been terrified by the time Cowley and Macklin came to let them out the next morning. Then there had been endless questions from the squad psychiatrist, every one of which Doyle had resented as an invasion of privacy. Then, more usefully, there had been two days of lectures on training the mind to cope with anticipation.

Doyle was putting that training to use now. He was running through everything he knew about CI5, trying to choose a suitable thing for his pretend breakdown. Once he'd chosen it, he'd have to pretend to be more frightened than he was when Rankine returned. That way it would seem reasonable, even after his defiance that afternoon, for him to break under whatever form of torture they tried on him next. If the information seemed good enough, they might act on it straightaway, leave him be for a while, so that even if they started on him again, the damage would be done, Cowley would guess he was alive, and figure out what must really have happened when the hangar exploded. Perhaps by the time CI5 arrived to save him — headed by Bodie, hopefully, since even if Cowley tried to pull him off the case he'd surely refuse to go — Doyle wouldn't yet be dead or crippled.

It was a gamble, but it was all Doyle had to go on. He couldn't afford to lose hope yet.

* * * * *

Finally, unable to stand the sound of his boss' voice, which had been coming hard and insistent through his R/T for the past god-knew-how-many minutes, Bodie sat up and reached for the device.

'Sir,' he croaked.

'Bodie! Where in blazes are you?'

'I'm still at Doyle's place, sir,' he replied.

'Did you finish going through his things?'

'Not yet, sir.'

'Hmm.' Cowley seemed to read the emotion that wasn't coming through in Bodie's flat, dead voice. 'Well, you can continue with that later. We've just had a call from a division of local police. One of the cars you were chasing yesterday has been spotted about fifty miles from that old farm.'

'But they were …' Bodie began, remembering the sight of the red Capri, first on fire, then exploding as the flames found the petrol tank. Then he remembered. The Triumph Herald had been left at the crossroads.

'Oh!' was all he could manage to say.

'Exactly, Bodie,' Cowley went on briskly. No sign of Rankine or any of his known associates, but it's a lead. Of course, the car may simply have been stolen from where it was left, but we'll take no chances. We need to know if any of the group survived that explosion. Now, I'm offering you the chance to find out, Bodie. But any unnecessary violence on Doyle's behalf will not be tolerated, do I make myself clear?'

'Yes sir,' said Bodie. His heart was racing. He never thought he'd get a chance to catch any of the bastards. He'd thought they were all dead. Despite Cowley's warning, Bodie's blood boiled with the need for revenge. And, as Cowley told him the location, and Bodie bolted for his car, he knew that he was going to get it. And damn the consequences.

It was 7am.

* * * * *

'It's 7am, Mr Doyle,' said Rankine. The two men stood facing each other in the middle of the cell, while two of Rankine's henchmen moved around them, setting up a trestle table, upon which they placed a length of cloth. Another, a big bastard with a gun, stood guard at the door in case Doyle made a break for it. Another was filling the bucket with water from the hose. Doyle had flinched involuntarily at the sight of the hose, but he thought that probably wasn't a bad thing. Not that appearing frightened was difficult. He'd read training manuals, attended lectures, watched films. He knew what was about to happen to him.

 _Just don't break for real,_ he told himself firmly.

'What I'd really like,' said Rankine, his voice falsely conversational, 'is to go on a little jaunt to CI5 headquarters this afternoon. You can help me do that. If you cooperate this morning.'

'And if I don't?' Doyle asked. He didn't have to make his eyes large and scared; they did it on their own.

'Then we start to break your bones,' Rankine said simply. 'You might as well tell us before we start doing that.'

Doyle made sure his nervous swallow was visible. He made his breath shake even more than it was already, as he exhaled.

'You could even tell us now,' Rankine went on. 'It'll save you a lot of bother. And it'll be much less of a risk. For us as well as you. After all, careful as interrogators always are, death isn't unheard of in these circumstances.'

He gestured towards the table.

'So,' he said sweetly. 'Why not just give us what we want?'

Doyle pressed his lips tightly together, and shook his head.

Rankine nodded at his men.

* * * * *

'The car's been dumped, sir!' Bodie practically bellowed into the R/T. 'There was one bloke in it according to the police, but he doesn't answer the description of anyone we know.'

'That's not surprising; we know little to nothing of Rankine's associates,' Cowley replied evenly. 'Betty has been running the descriptions you gave us yesterday through the computer, but nothing concrete has turned up yet. Keep on it, 3.7.'

'Sir,' Bodie said grimly, and stopped transmitting.

The clock on his dashboard said it was just gone nine.


	11. Chapter 11

_One more,_ Doyle thought, as they peeled the cloth off his face and let him up for air. It was a miracle, really, that such a thought could still enter his head after two hours of this. He'd read about men who'd broken after a quarter of that time. Not that such knowledge was any consolation to him now. He sat up, slowly and painfully, shaking his head to dislodge water from his ears, taking great gulps of air as if he'd never expected to breathe again. Which wasn't far off the mark.

Maybe, deep inside his head, Doyle had known they wouldn't kill him on purpose. But while he'd lain there, struggling, two men holding him down and another dousing him with water, he'd truly believed he was dying. All he could think of was the pain in his nose, his mouth, his throat, his chest, his lungs — and worse than the pain, the terror of suffocation. Words had formed in his head: _I can't breathe. I'm going to die. I don't want to die._ And one other word: _Bodie._

Just thinking his partner's name made him want to weep. Fine, why not? Next time he'd pretend to break. If he could summon up a few tears into the bargain, it'd be all the more believable.

'Now are you ready to talk?' Rankine demanded. He'd stood over Doyle while the cruelly termed "water cure" was being administered, taunting him, yelling insults at him, telling him he was going to break and what else they were going to do to him if he didn't. While the water pounded down over Doyle's mouth, nose and ears, and his aching head throbbed out his pulse, he heard tales of what had happened to Soviet prisoners while Rankine was imprisoned in Siberia. He heard tales of Nazi concentration camps that made his stomach twist with revulsion. Rankine told him of other instances, further back in history, of inquisitors and heretics, of men who'd been hung up by their arms until their shoulders dislocated, or beaten with sledgehammers until their legs were crushed beyond recognition and the marrow seeped out with the blood. In his distressed state, all pride and courage having deserted him, Doyle had whimpered with fright. Water in his mouth had been his reward: that and the sound of the men's mocking laughter in his ears.

But Doyle shook his head at Rankine's question.

'Are you sure?' Rankine asked, amused.

Doyle nodded.

'Alright, put him back down,' Rankine ordered.

The men shoved Doyle onto his back again. The sodden cloth was placed over his face. _One more,_ Doyle told himself, gritting his teeth.

The water cascaded down again. But despite knowing this was the last time, perhaps even _because_ of that in an odd sort of way, something inside Doyle snapped. Terror took him beyond reason. He panicked, struggling wildly, thrashing his arms and legs and arching his body in a hideous parody of ecstasy. He managed to twist himself out of the men's grip, rolling off the table and onto the hard floor. He only just remembered to land the way he'd been trained, so he didn't hurt himself too badly, but the concrete was still a harsh punishment for his abused body. Winded, he nevertheless managed to scramble quickly to his feet. The guard with the gun took aim, but Doyle was fast. He charged, knocking the gun upwards so it fired into the ceiling. He was out the door in a flash, barely remembering, and certainly not caring, that he was naked. He ran flat out along a narrow corridor of concrete and steel that was lit by fluorescent strips on the walls. He came to a short flight of steps, and ran up them, conscious of the shouts and running footsteps behind him. He found himself on a landing about six feet square, with a closed door in one wall. This was where he'd been brought in. There were more steps leading up to the trapdoor, and a switch on the wall that he knew would open it. He pressed the switch and ran, eyes fixed on the steel that slid back, letting in blessed daylight, and freedom, and ...

The barrel of a gun, pointing between his eyes, stopped Doyle in his tracks. At the same time, the steel door at the bottom of the steps burst open, and three men rushed out. Doyle recognised them as the men from the gunfight of the previous day. One of them had his right arm in a sling; he must have been the one Bodie had shot. That made eight men at Rankine's disposal, then. The man at the top of the steps, Doyle had never seen before.

'Thank you, Farley,' Rankine said smoothly. He hadn't been there five seconds ago, when the three other men had come in, but now he was standing at the bottom of the steps, a pace or two in front of his cronies. Doyle tore his eyes away from the tantalising glimpse of the outside world, and turned back uneasily to face his captor. By the smirk on his face, and the fact that he hadn’t ordered the men from the cell to give chase, he hadn't thought for a moment that Doyle would make it out.

'That's Farley,' Rankine said, pointing over Doyle's shoulder. 'He provided us with covering fire from the other building while we brought you in here. He's got his own little hidey-hole around there. Useful to have a man on the outside. He was kind enough to dispose of the other car for us. He's been laying a nice false trail for that pretty-boy partner of yours this morning. Now, Mr Doyle — in view of this little performance of yours, give me one good reason why I shouldn't break every bone in your body.'

'Because I have important information for you,' Doyle told him. He was breathless, and his voice was raspy from exhaustion and effort. 'You need it in the next hour, or it'll be useless.'

Rankine beckoned to him. With every appearance of meekness and obedience, Doyle descended the steps. Rankine nodded to Farley, then pressed the switch; the trapdoor slid shut again. Rankine was a big man, about six-four and broader than Bodie, and he stood intimidatingly close to his smaller, slighter captive.

'Are you going to tell me this information?'

Doyle pretended to hesitate.

'Well?' Rankine looked more threatening than ever.

As if it were a betrayal that ripped his heart out, Doyle looked miserably into Rankine's eyes, then dropped them to his feet as if in shame.

'There's a safehouse,' he said, in a hollow voice. He gave Rankine a set of map coordinates, which the big man appeared to memorise. 'It looks like a gymnasium from the outside. Don't be fooled. There are rooms behind it, all done up like the bloody Ritz. There's a man staying there. He's a Swedish diplomat. Independent sort. He'll probably have a bodyguard with him, but no other security.'

'And why should I care about a Swedish diplomat?' Rankine enquired, in a voice like silk.

'Because at noon today, Cowley will be visiting him. Alone.'

'I see,' said Rankine, stroking his chin in a thoughtful but rather theatrical gesture. 'Well, I think I might pay our friend Cowley a visit. You three,' he addressed the men behind him, 'get ready to leave. Get on the radio to Farley: he'll bring the van around. Oh, and Morgan, bring me the cattle prod, will you?'

Doyle tried not to gulp at the last words. Rankine clearly loved his position of power as much as Doyle loathed and resented his own inevitable submission to it. He didn't want to give Rankine the satisfaction of seeing him even more afraid. The three henchmen nodded briskly and disappeared behind the door again. Doyle caught a glimpse of a large storeroom as one of the men came out again, handed Rankine what he'd asked for, and rejoined his mates. The steel door banged shut.

'Now. Let's get you back to your cell.'

Rankine brandished the cattle prod at Doyle, who had no choice but to walk on ahead. When he reached the closed door of the cell, behind which could be heard the sound of men talking and laughing, Rankine grabbed Doyle by the scruff of his neck and muttered harshly, yet with horrible casualness, in his ear.

'You behave yourself while I'm away. Or I'll give you the old Vlad the Impaler act with this thing. I'll stick you right up to the heart. I've seen men die like that, and believe me, it's not pleasant. But watching — I dunno, it gives one a sense of curiosity. What would it be like to hold the instrument of death, I wonder? So don't make me angry, Mr Doyle, because that's when I start to get curious. Might even fuck that pretty arse of yours myself before I stick you with this thing.' His voice turned thoughtful. 'I've never tried that before.'

Doyle bit back the string of abuse that he longed to hurl at his captor, and allowed himself to be shoved into the cell, the cattle prod inches from the small of his back.

 _Bodie,_ he thought desperately. _Bodie, Bodie, Bodie ..._

 _Stop it,_ he told himself, half a second later.

'I've got something,' Rankine told his men. 'I'm going to follow it up. I'm taking Morgan, Patterson and Selkirk with me. Farley'll still be keeping guard outside.'

'What do we do with him?' one of the men demanded, gesturing roughly towards Ray.

'Oh, we might have another use for him yet. Besides, if this is a dead end I'll kill the little bastard myself.' Smirking at Doyle, he gave the cattle prod a little wave and added: 'Eventually. Right, you four. Danvers, keep on watching the door. The rest of you, keep him nice and cool. Know what I mean?'

'Sir.'

'And if he misbehaves at all, give him a dose of this thing.'

He handed the cattle prod to the nearest man.

'But that's it, d'you hear? If this works, we owe him a quick shot in the head. If it doesn't, I want him in one piece before I start on him. Clear?'

'Sir,' came the curt, in-unison reply again.

'Good. One other thing. If I'm not back by dark, kill him yourselves. However you like.'

'Sir.'

With another smug leer in Doyle's direction, Rankine turned on his heel and walked out of the cell. Danvers shut the door behind him.

Doyle was knocked to the ground before he could even think about what to do next. A minute later, alone in the room and covered in icy water, he could only think of how cold he was. Then he thought of Bodie, his warmth, his solidity, his strength ... Doyle curled around himself, shivering, trying to imagine Bodie with him, gathering him into his arms, holding him, soothing him ... loving him.

Immediately, his thoughts were clouded by memories of the hose being shoved into him, and the pain of what had followed. Yet he still felt a sense of wanting. The intimidating, taunting figure of his captor, the threat of rape, made him crave, not fear, male contact. But from _Bodie,_ only Bodie. He needed to claim and be claimed, loved by the man to whom he _wanted_ to belong. Oh, it would never be the same for Bodie — Doyle knew that. It didn't matter. Especially not now. His memories were sweet enough.

Doyle whispered Bodie's name aloud, once. Then, because he was cold and wet and frightened and hurting, and there was no reason to hold back anymore, he allowed a tear or two to slip down his cheeks. But only one or two. Part of him longed to give in to it, but a bigger, more stubborn part, full of pride and anger and defiance, made him grit his teeth, clench his fists, and rack his addled brains for a plan to get himself out.

It would mean seizing an opportunity, like he had before. When Danvers or any of the others came back, he’d kick out, run for it. If he could just make it to the trapdoor again … no, the storeroom first. The men who lurked there would be gone now. He could find himself a weapon. If he were quick enough, he could take on his pursuers one by one, from the top of the stairs. Then get that bloke outside, what was his name? Farley. Open the trapdoor, hide, lure him down. Then run. Get to a phone, call in. Wait for Bodie.

Doyle played out a little fantasy in his head. He was sitting by a phone box, and Bodie drove up beside him. He got out of the car, strode over, reached down and helped Doyle to his feet. On the deserted road, they embraced each other. Of course, in the fantasy, Bodie whispered words that Doyle knew he’d never hear from his best friend. But the rest could happen. It could easily happen. All he had to do was get himself out of this place.

 _Better be dressed, ready._ His clothes were in the corner of the room where the men had tossed them hours ago. He’d been too wet, and in too much pain, to give any thought to them until now. Slowly, quietly, still trying to curb his shivering, he made his way to the corner, and began to put on his clothes. Pulling tight, damp jeans over a wet lower body wasn’t easy or comfortable, but he managed.

 _They think I’ve broken,_ he thought, with some satisfaction.

 _Well you did, for a minute, didn’t you?_ an inner voice told him slyly. _After less than twenty-four hours. After all your training ..._

 _Only because I knew I was going to end it myself,_ he argued firmly. _When you know you’ve only got to take one more go of something awful, it seems worse._

 _You broke,_ insisted the inner voice. _And just now you nearly broke again. There’s no Bodie to save you this time, Doyle. He thinks you’re dead. You have to do this yourself._

 _Like I’ve never saved myself before?_ Doyle thought scornfully, as he laced up his trainers. _What about when Bodie was in hospital? I saved myself then, didn’t I?_

 _But you didn’t let_ them _break you, did you?_

‘Shut up,’ Doyle muttered.

He heard the bolts on the cell door being shot back, and lay down quickly. The longer it took them to spot he was dressed, the better, even if there was only half a second in it. He saw Danvers stand back to let two of the others enter. The one at the front was carrying a bucket. Doyle raised his knees and kicked. The bucket went flying, and ice cubes flew everywhere. The next kick went into the man’s stomach while the bucket was still in the air. He let out a whoosh of air and staggered backwards into his mate. They both fell, crashing into the exposed plumbing on the wall. A short section of pipe broke and clattered to the floor; water gushed out, soaking the fallen men. Taking advantage of the distraction, Doyle was on his feet in a second, fists raised. Danvers fired his gun and missed. Doyle charged him, head-butting him in the stomach, sending him careering into the open cell door, then onto his knees, winded by the impact. Doyle wrenched the gun out of Danvers’ grasp and began to run. But a hand grasped his ankle, and he went down.

Before he could struggle away, three men were on him. The fourth appeared from somewhere else, no doubt drawn in by the commotion. Doyle struggled and fought for all he was worth, using every martial arts trick, and every dirty move that he could think of. Weakened, and against four men, two of whom were considerably larger than he was, Doyle went down over and over again. But he kept fighting.

He might have won, too, through sheer dogged desperation. But one of them remembered the cattle prod. As suddenly as he’d ambushed them, Doyle stopped fighting and screamed as a searing pain shot down his back, from where the device had connected with the back of his neck. His legs turned to jelly and he collapsed, gasping. In that moment there had been nothing in the world but the pain.

‘You gonna behave yourself now?’ demanded the man with the cattle prod.

They were laughing at him. Humiliated, Doyle tried to stand up again, but the bastard just shocked him a second time. He fell back down, unable to stop himself from shaking.

‘OK, OK,’ he surrendered, raising one hand in a helpless gesture.

‘Good,’ the man said curtly. ‘Strip him. Tie him up. There’s a roll of twine in the storeroom. Get it, Alf, will you? And Tony, get another bucket of ice.’

Two of the other men nodded, and left the cell. While they was gone, Danvers and the man with the cattle prod divested Ray of his clothes, chucking them back in the corner again.

‘Good for a man to see what he can’t have,’ Danvers remarked.

Alf and Tony returned then. Doyle's arms were wrenched painfully behind his back and his wrists were tied with twine. Then they did the same with his ankles. In the meantime, Tony had fixed the pipe, and was filling the bucket with water from the hose. Alf kicked Doyle in the back. They were standing over him, surrounding him. Somehow, this seemed more frightening than humiliating, now he was tied up. He was starting to feel helpless again. Hope was deserting him. He’d made one, last, valiant attempt … what, now, was there left to do?

A deep, pained gasp escaped Doyle, as the bucket of icy water was tipped over him. Then, once again, with nothing gained except his bonds, he was alone.


	12. Chapter 12

The Rankine case preyed on Cowley's mind incessantly, and he nearly didn't keep his appointment at noon that day. But whatever matters pressed on him, he was a man of his word. He'd said he would go, so he went.

He passed the armed guard at the gate of the compound. He parked his car, got out, entered the gymnasium, and walked past all the weights and training machines to a door at the back of the room. The gym did get used from time to time, but the space behind was where the real training took place. He heard a thump and a muffled "Ooof!" just before he opened the door, and couldn't help smiling to himself. When he walked in, he saw that the unfortunate man was Murphy. Brian Macklin, who'd started the solo agents' refresher course this morning, stood over him, grinning, saying something about him being sloppy, and oh how good he'd be in three days' time. Then he caught sight of Cowley.

'You made it, sir!' he said, coming forward with a friendly hand outstretched. 'I thought you might not come, in view of recent events.'

'The normal workings of CI5 don't stop just because we lose one agent, Brian,' Cowley replied, gently but sternly.

'I was sorry to hear about Doyle,' said Macklin.

'Yes, we all were,' Cowley answered.

'How's Bodie holding up, sir?' Murphy asked, as Turner hauled him to his feet and clapped him on the back.

'He'll be alright,' Cowley said, in a tone that made it clear that the subject was closed.

'As a matter of fact, Brian,' he went on five minutes later, when the agents and Macklin's latest assistant had been dismissed for a break, and the two men were alone in the training room, 'I have a feeling I'll be sending Bodie to you soon. Help him train up as a solo agent. I don't think he'll work with another partner.'

'Well, I can't say I'm surprised,' said Macklin. 'I'm never sure it's wise, sir, letting men get that close. I know it works well in the field …'

'It certainly does,' Cowley interrupted briskly. 'Bodie and Doyle were my best men. The very best. And Bodie will be again. He needs to adjust, that's all, adjust and retrain. And he'll need time to come to terms with Doyle's death. But he won't let it beat him, you can bet on that.'

'Hmm,' said Macklin. He might have been about to say something else, but …

'Cowley,' he said quietly.

Cowley followed his gaze, to the flashing red light near the ceiling. Someone unauthorised had entered the compound.

* * * * *

Bodie had just returned to HQ, craving a moment's respite after one of the most frustrating mornings of his life, when the storm broke. For a moment he could only stare as Macklin, Murphy, Turner, Anson, Benny, and a bloke Bodie didn't know, marched through the corridors with three prisoners between them. Bodie knew every one of them. He recognised two of the men from the gunfight, and he knew Rankine's face from his picture. What he hadn't been able to tell was how _big_ the man was. Rankine needed both Murphy and Macklin to hold him.

They were all there. All very much alive.

When Cowley passed him, and he saw them all heading for the interrogation rooms, Bodie finally came to his senses.

'Sir!' he cried out, running to catch up.

'Ah, Bodie, you have decided to join us,' Cowley said drily.

'What the f--'

'You can stop there, Bodie,' said Cowley. 'The answer to your question is, they tried to storm Macklin's place.'

'But I don't …' Bodie stopped, and tried again, breathless with the effort of containing himself. 'Sir. I watched three of those men walk into that hangar before it blew sky-high. If they're alive …'

'Yes,' Cowley said grimly. 'That's what I aim to find out.'

Bodie took deep breaths, trying to steady himself. For a moment he felt dangerously close to tears. They'd found Doyle's clothes, his jewellery, his keys. He couldn't be alive. But how had his killers managed not only to live, but to walk away unscathed?

Doyle's killers. And Rankine at the head of them.

'Let me talk to Rankine,' he snapped through gritted teeth. He started to walk on ahead, but Cowley held him back.

'Let me make one thing clear, Bodie. I will not have you messing this up. If you go down there you will stay calm and do as I tell you. There will be no acts of revenge on Doyle's behalf.'

At those words, Bodie's anger exploded.

'For God's sake, sir, do you think _I_ want this messed up? I want to see those bastards go down as much as you do. D'you think I'll pass up the chance to have Rankine packed off back to Siberia after what he did to Ray?'

His voice shook with emotion as he railed at his boss. Cowley didn't do or say anything. He just stood there patiently until Bodie had finished. Then he walked away. Bodie stared after him. But before he'd gone ten paces he stopped, and looked over his shoulder.

'Well, Bodie?' he asked. 'Aren't you coming?'

Feeling like an idiot, Bodie followed him.

* * * * *

It was 3:00pm when the breakthrough came. Up until that moment, the interrogators had had no luck at all. Morgan had maintained a stony silence for hours, seeming to stare right through Cowley as he questioned him, and no amount of knuckle cracking and threatening looks from Murphy and Anson could make him waver. Even when Cowley mentioned electricity, he didn't so much as flinch. If Rankine had taught them to withstand questioning, they'd been trained by the best.

'If anyone was going to break under the pressure,' he told Cowley, in a mild tone, 'it would have been Selkirk. He was my newest man. But oh, what a shame. Your man here shot him.'

He'd meant Macklin, who had been standing at the back of the room, arms folded, looking as cool and calm as any field agent. Only Cowley knew what it would have done to the nerve-shattered man, shooting at a living target — even one with an injured arm. But Macklin’s loyalty was as unimpeachable as his aim.

Rankine's confidence held out, but Patterson eventually broke. He knew, of course, about his leader's time in Soviet hands, and Cowley played on it. He began to describe torture methods.

'But I'm sure you've heard all this before,' he said, smiling at the increasingly discomfited man. 'You think you belong to a nation of fair players, Mr Patterson, but believe me, I'll do whatever's necessary to get my job done. Bodie here'll tell you that.'

'Absolutely, sir,' Bodie replied. At a slight nod from his boss, he walked over to the table at which Patterson sat, and leaned over it, squaring his shoulders and leering maliciously down at the prisoner.

'That was my partner you killed,' he said. 'You know that, don't you? One of your mates was shot this afternoon. What did he mean to you, Patterson? Eh? You saw him every day, you worked with him. He was on your side, wasn't he? He'd have had your back. Or maybe it wasn't like that for you. Maybe it's true what we all tell ourselves. Terrorists don't have feelings. Eh?'

Bodie seemed to be enjoying his performance. Cowley certainly was. The last niggling doubt about whether Bodie was going to be any help down here left him. He watched, over Bodie's shoulder, as the first signs of uncertainty began to show on Patterson's face.

Bodie stood up straight again, paced up and down for a bit, then — again, waiting for the merest movement of Cowley's head — he threw the table aside and grabbed Patterson by his collar, hauling him to his feet. Patterson was a short man: a good four or five inches shorter than Bodie, so it was easy for Bodie to loom over him, bringing his face down close.

'Well _I_ have feelings, Patterson,' he spat, his voice low and menacing. 'My boss here, he just wants answers. He doesn't care how we get 'em. _He_ knows how much Ray Doyle meant to me. But clearly you don't. If you did, you'd be terrified. You don't want to know what I could do to you.'

Patterson looked over Bodie's shoulder at Cowley.

'This is mad. You can't let him do this!'

'Oh, I assure you I can, Mr Patterson,' Cowley replied. 'You'll be alright on your own for a while, won't you, Bodie? I think I'll just look in on Morgan again.'

Patterson looked at Bodie.

'No!' he cried out, when Cowley's hand was on the door. Cowley put on the appearance of ignoring him. He opened the door and began to walk through it.

'Your man, he talked!' Patterson shouted, and Cowley turned to look at him. Patterson flinched at the expression on Bodie's face, which Cowley couldn't see. But he could imagine.

* * * * *

'Your man, Patterson. He talked,' Cowley told Rankine, half an hour later. 'He told us everything.'

'I don't believe you,' Rankine replied.

'Oh, believe it, Mr Rankine,' said Cowley. 'We know you planned to take CI5 apart, we know you faked our man's death, as well as all your own. We know how you did it, and where the rest of your men are hiding, and how to get down there. We know you were trying to get to me. You tortured our man for information, but he was too clever for you. I wasn't there of course, but I can imagine he held out for a couple of hours before he pretended to break. I expect he let you think he'd given you all you needed before you killed him.'

'Ki--' Rankine began, but seemed to change his mind about what he was going to say. 'Do you have the time, Mr Cowley?'

'It's 3:30 in the afternoon,' Cowley said, glancing at his watch.

'Hmm.' Rankine looked positively smug. 'I expect it'll be getting dark in half an hour or so.'

'That is immaterial,' Cowley snapped. 'I've got men on their way to your place now. If you have anyone still there, they will be arrested. Your bunker will be commandeered by the British government and put to better use. An ingenious system, I must say. A man on the outside to provide covering fire, then retreat to his own hiding place during the distraction of the explosion? A trap door built seamlessly into the floor of the hangar, remote controls in bomb-proof casings — really, you thought of everything. But you shouldn't bet against one of my men. No enemy of the state should ever do that. I am glad for his partner's sake that Doyle didn't die in the explosion. We shall be recovering his body.'

'If there's anything left of it to recover,' Rankine said with a smile.

'Don't push me, Rankine,' Cowley replied darkly. 'You're a wanted man. I've already signed the papers to set the process of your trial in motion. You may live out the rest of your days at Her Majesty's pleasure. But I think it very likely that certain men whose feet grace the corridors of power might not think a gesture of goodwill towards Moscow would go amiss.'

For the first time, a flicker of fear came into Rankine's eyes.

'And you can be sure that the state of Raymond Doyle's corpse will be a factor in how these proceedings precipitate themselves,' Cowley went on coolly.

'He's alive!' Rankine snapped. 'Patterson lied to you. Winding up Doyle's partner, no doubt, or perhaps he thought it was later than it was. But your man's alive, Mr Cowley, I swear it. I ordered them to keep him alive. But if I'm not back there by dark they'll kill him. It's out of my control.'

'Then we'd better both hope that Bodie gets there before dark,' Cowley said, half to himself.


	13. Chapter 13

The sun was beginning to set when Bodie reached the airfield. He'd run out of the interrogation room the moment he'd got what he needed from Patterson. Cowley had taken longer to organise backup. According to the angry words of his boss, snapping via R/T about rashness, insubordination, rule breaking — nothing Bodie hadn't heard before, anyway — the rest of the team were about ten minutes behind him.

He took care of Farley (he knew the man’s name from Patterson's ravings) with a shot to the head. Farley didn't even have the chance to raise his gun. Bodie found the remote control for the trapdoor in the man's jacket pocket. He left Farley's corpse bleeding on the ground, and ran into the wreckage that had been the hangar. He pressed the button on the remote control; there was a soft mechanical whirring sound, and part of the floor opened up before his eyes. There were steps, and a small landing below. Bodie descended cautiously. He could hear voices from behind a steel door to his right.

'Yep. It'll be dark by now. No sign of any of them. It must've gone wrong.'

'Right. So we do it?'

'With pleasure, mate.'

Bodie neither knew nor cared what they were talking about. As soon as the steel door opened, Bodie kicked out at the nearest bit of flesh he could see, and forced his way into the room. He found himself in what looked like a cross between a storeroom and a rest room. Boxes were stacked against every wall, and in the middle of the room was a card table, surrounded by chairs. Three men attacked Bodie at once. One, he dropped with a killing blow to the throat. Another he incapacitated with a bullet in the left hip and his head slammed against the door. One more to go. Bodie was in a red rage; he didn't care if he killed or maimed. For he knew now that Doyle hadn't died instantly in an explosion. He'd been tortured to death. And these were the men who'd done it. His foot came up and he kicked the third man in the side of the head. He staggered; Bodie took the advantage, punched him square between the eyes, and he went down. Bodie looked at them. Two were alive; he could tell that much easily. The other, the one he'd punched in the throat, was obviously dead. Bodie felt no remorse.

He was about to leave the room, to go further down, search for Ray's body. He didn't hear the fourth man come up behind him. He felt his arm being twisted painfully behind his back, felt the gun being pressed into the side of his head. Normally, Bodie would have surrendered. But today he didn't care if he lived or died. He took a gamble. He raised his free hand, as if in surrender. But he moved it further, towards the gun. Trusting his strength, Bodie grabbed the barrel and wrenched it out of the man’s hand, so fast that he didn't have the chance to pull the trigger.

Still aided with the element of surprise. Bodie twisted his arm out of his assailant's grip. He felt it bend in the wrong direction, but no longer felt any pain. He was beyond pain. His fist slammed into the man's chin so hard that his jaw broke. Bodie felt the sickly crunch of bone under his knuckles and the force of his punch reverberated through his wrist, up to his elbow. The man fell, unconscious. Bodie bent down to check his pulse: he'd live. Now there was no sound except Bodie's own breathing and that of his three living victims, and a metallic banging, almost a regular beat, somewhere far off. It jarred Bodie's nigh-on shattered nerves, as it came home to him what he'd just done.

 _Bang. Bang. Bang._

Four men on the floor, one outside. Every one dead or incapacitated. And every punch, every kick, every squeeze of the trigger had been pure satisfaction. Bodie, a man whose business was violence, rarely enjoyed it, but today with these men ... just like that day with Krivas ...

No. He'd enjoyed it the way one enjoys breathing; it was _needed,_ not wanted. Revenge, that was what this was. Twice in his life, he'd had to avenge a slaughtered love. The strength of the feeling that was now creeping up on him said that the latter love was infinitely greater.

 _Bang. Bang. Bang._

'There's no love as true as the love that dies untold ...' Bodie had read, or heard that somewhere. Maybe that was it. Putting their purely physical relationship aside, Doyle, who'd written in secret, rather than spoken his true feelings, had been just as unattainable in life as he was now in death. That was what strengthened Bodie's grief, and his need for vengeance. It wasn't that Doyle had been ... the One, or anything. Bodie, for all that he was fully aware of what he felt for his partner, refused to believe in that sort of romantic crap.

What did it matter anyway? He wouldn't be falling for anyone again. He'd never let anyone past his defences. Not even platonically. Never again. Nothing was worth this ...

 _Bang. Bang. Bang._

'What the fuck is that?' Bodie muttered.

 _Bang. Bang. Bang._

 _Sounds like a person,_ he thought.

Another man somewhere. The four at Bodie's feet weren't enough, suddenly. If just one more of Doyle's captors was still at large, Bodie would move heaven and earth to get at him. It was irresponsible to leave alone those who were alive, but Bodie wasn't going to wait, not to let some other agent go blundering in at the sound of the noise. These bastards were his.

He ran in the direction of the noise, back onto the landing, then down a short flight of steel steps that led to a narrow corridor. It looked like the lower decks of a ship, and was probably just as easy to lose oneself in. The banging continued. Pistol in hand, Bodie moved more cautiously as he came closer to the noise. The corridor wound round several corners, then there was a long, straight stretch, and several doors. From behind one of those, came the banging. It was not difficult for Bodie's well-trained ears to discern which. The door was bolted from the outside. He shot the bolts, cocked his pistol, and burst in.

He saw a pair of long feet, bound with rough twine around slim ankles. Between the feet was a length of pipe, which had obviously come out of the exposed plumbing on the wall, because there was a gap in the pipes and water was spraying everywhere. The prisoner must have heard the gunshots, dislodged the pipe with his feet, and started making as much noise as possible, to draw attention to himself. His plan had worked.

Not that any of those things mattered to Bodie. For it was Doyle lying on the floor of that cell. Naked, soaking wet, covered in bruises, shivering with cold — but it was his Ray, breathing, and alive. Bodie shoved his gun back into its holster and dropped to his knees beside his partner. Bodie touched his shoulder and nearly recoiled at the clammy, icy feel of his skin.

‘Doyle,’ he said gently. With both hands he turned Doyle to face him. At the sound of Bodie's voice, Doyle's feet released the pipe. His eyes, wild and unfocused, came to rest on Bodie's face. And Bodie saw his true feelings in that first unguarded look, knew they were real, knew that if only they could live long enough, it would work out; they could be happy ...

'Ray!' Bodie’s voice was dangerously close to breaking.

'Ah, Bodie,' Doyle said, in a rasping whisper. 'Jesus Christ, I thought you were never coming.'

'I thought you were dead,' Bodie choked. Doyle's reply was only a weak nod, but it was enough to show he understood.

Then Bodie came to his senses. To his relief, the rush of emotion and the threatening tears that went with it retreated in the face of pragmatism. He pulled his knife from his pocket and set about cutting Doyle's bonds. He didn't try and move his partner, well aware that Doyle might have injuries he couldn't see.

'Anything broken?' he asked. He sat back to let Doyle shift himself in his own time. Bodie watched him flex muscles, rub wrists and ankles. He winced whenever Doyle did. Doyle's pain was was as real to Bodie as his own.

'Nothing broken,' Doyle replied at length. 'They hadn't got to that yet.'

'They were torturing you?' Bodie asked, tensing up. He knew the answer, or part of it, and he didn't want to hear any more. But he knew Doyle might need to tell him: before the doctors and nurses, before Cowley and the dreaded Frank Fforbes, the latest in a long line of CI5 psychiatrists whose job seemed to be to take everything the wrong way, write up every agent as a basket case, then move on to greener pastures.

Doyle simply gave him a curt nod. But Bodie could see from the haunted look in his partner's eyes that he hadn't heard the last of this.

'Pass me my clothes?' Doyle asked, pointing to the far corner of the room. Bodie went and tossed them to him.

'I don't get it,' he said, as he watched Doyle dress. 'Forensics found your clothes, or traces of them, after the explosion!'

'They found me jacket, you mean,' snapped Doyle, his voice terse and bitter. 'I bloody loved that jacket. I'd had it since I was eighteen. I would have to be wearing that, wouldn't I? They took it off me and threw it over with the bodies.’

He winced, as if the memory pained him. Bodie’s fingers twitched; he longed to touch Doyle, to embrace him, but somehow he didn’t dare.

‘I assume you found the bodies? What would've been left of them?' Doyle rushed on before Bodie could answer. 'Poor bastards. My jacket died in that explosion, not me, and that's what I mourn, well, maybe I should have gone with them after all.'

'Ha — after all the effort I took finding this place? There's gratitude for you!'

He'd broken the tension. Doyle snorted with laughter as he finished lacing up his trainers. He stood up, obviously too fast, because he put a hand gingerly to his head and swayed slightly. When Bodie, concerned, started forward, Doyle held the hand out to stop him. He gave Bodie a reassuring half-smile. Then the smile became a little wider, and a little warmer.

'Couldn't have a hug, I s’pose, could I?’ A little touch of irony in his voice showed that he knew he didn't have to ask, but was asking anyway, and maybe even he didn't know why. Bodie's answering laugh was as much of a release as anything else.

'I'd give you the fucking _moon,_ mate, I'm so happy to see you! C’mere.’

Bodie took Doyle somewhat tentatively into his arms, but got a crushing embrace in return that took his breath away and made the tears threaten again. Doyle's back muscles rippled under Bodie’s hands as he shuddered. Bodie heard him swallow hard as he brought an outburst of emotion under control. He wanted to tell Doyle it was alright, to let go, but he knew that backup would only be minutes away, if it wasn’t already arriving. If Doyle was to break down, Bodie wanted it to be private and secure; it would need time, and delicacy, and he needed Doyle to know that he loved him — perhaps then he wouldn’t feel he had to be tough and hold back. What was more, Bodie needed to be more in control himself. He could feel the familiar press of Doyle's hands and fingers on his shoulders, and he could smell dried blood in the wet curls that rested against his skin. His stomach tightened painfully and his heart pounded, as his feelings crowded on him, nearly shattering his nerves. Christ, he'd thought he'd never _see_ his partner again, let alone hold him! Now if only he could manage not to break down and cry like the damnable sissy he seemed to have become over the last twenty–four hours, he could take Doyle home and show him in a far better, safer, less emotionally revealing way how glad he was to have him back again. Then he could sort this business out in his own good time. In a calmer moment, he'd tell Doyle he'd found the letter, and he felt the same. But not now, not when Doyle was a physical and nervous wreck, and Bodie couldn't think of anything to say to him that wasn't embarrassingly soppy. Offering him the moon had been bad enough …

'Harder, I'm not a fucking doll!' Doyle demanded, sounding, to Bodie's relief, something like his old self. 'I told you nothing's bro ... mmm, that's better.'

Bodie's hug had become tighter, stronger, intended to comfort. It worked. He felt Doyle relax, melting into him, resting his head on Bodie's wool-covered shoulder.

'Wouldn't mind the moon,' Doyle murmured, his voice much steadier. 'Settle for you for now, though.'

'Settle, eh?' Bodie replied mischievously, pretending to be insulted. 'Rather look at the moon than me, would you?'

Doyle pulled back to smile at him. A finger traced its way over Bodie's features.

'Naaah,' he whispered. 'You're ...'

He trailed off.

'What?' Bodie asked.

 _What, sunshine?_ he went on inside his head. _Better than the moon? Is that what you were going to say? Bloody hell, you’re as bad as I am. Wonder if we’ll ever get over this romance lark and be normal again? Yeah, course we will. Got to let it out to get over it, haven’t we? Love you so much, Ray … can’t wait to tell you … tell you now if you give me another opening like that …_

'Nothin', mate,' Doyle answered. He gave Bodie a gentle smile. Then his eyes seemed to catch something, and he frowned. He lifted the small leather pouch that was still around Bodie’s neck.

‘What’s that?’ he asked. ‘It looks like …’

Bodie felt himself blushing, but there was no lying to his partner. And it didn’t matter anyway, did it? Maybe this was the opening he needed.

‘Well if you must know, it’s a piece of your jacket,’ he said. ‘I nicked it from forensics. There’s a bit of your chain inside it too.’ He dropped his eyes. ‘Before you laugh at me, just remember I thought you’d died at the time.’

But Doyle didn’t laugh. His lips parted and widened in a smile that was the most blindingly beautiful thing Bodie had ever seen.

‘You sentimental git!’ Doyle said, sounding delighted. He hugged Bodie one more time, too briefly even for Bodie to have a chance to pat him on the back. Then he walked past Bodie, out of the cell, without looking back.

Bodie followed him in silence. He could hear, in the distance, that backup had arrived.

* * * * *

Doyle's debriefing was painful to watch, but there wasn’t much Bodie could do about that. Quietly, and with a look in his eyes that brooked no refusal, Doyle asked Bodie to stay with him. So Bodie did. He watched as a doctor patched Doyle up and prodded him about, checking for broken bones and any signs of internal damage, mercifully finding none. He showered and changed at HQ at the same time Doyle did. Bodie felt a rush of affection when he emerged into the changing room to see Doyle at his locker, pulling on his most comfortable outfit: faded old jeans, burnt orange T–shirt and the big, scruffy, red–green–and–white checked jacket. Bodie had seen Doyle in those clothes so many times that they seemed almost like a second skin. He listened as Doyle sat opposite Cowley’s desk and told the old man, in a cold, dispassionate way, everything that had happened to him. He described the torture with less feeling, less moral outrage, than he would have done if he’d been describing someone else’s experience. Cowley’s reaction was quietly sympathetic, but calm and businesslike. Bodie, on the other hand, was emotional enough for all three of them. He paced up and down, glowering, anger simmering just below the surface.

‘It wasn’t enough!’ he burst out, when finally he couldn’t take any more. ‘What I did to those arseholes, dammit, I should’ve …’

‘Bodie!’ Cowley admonished him. His tone held a hint of danger. ‘It’s lucky for you that you didn’t do more to them.’

‘Yeah,’ said Doyle. He stood up, and came to stand close to Bodie. He gave him that funny, close–lipped little smile that melted Bodie’s heart every time he saw it. His eyes were warm, full of affection and wry humour. ‘Can’t have you landing yourself in custody. Who’s gonna buy me drinks tonight, eh?’

Bodie, who’d been staring at the floor, allowed his eyes to flicker up and meet his partner’s. He smiled back at Doyle. They both knew they weren’t going anywhere near a pub that night.

‘All right, lads,’ said Cowley. ‘That’ll do. I expect your report on my desk by Friday morning. Doyle, you’re on leave until then. Bodie …’

He broke off to look thoughtfully at the two agents.

‘… you too. Just don’t buy your partner too many drinks; I want your report to make sense. And Doyle?’

‘Sir?’

‘Nine-thirty on Friday morning, you will have a session with Dr Fforbes. No arguments,’ Cowley insisted, cutting Doyle off as he opened his mouth to protest. ‘You may not think such things are necessary, but I happen to believe in it. And what I say goes. Now get out of here, both of you.’

They left without another word, strolling down the corridors of HQ, stopping to eye up one of the girls from the typing pool who was on her way to Cowley’s office with some paperwork.

‘Drive you home?’ Bodie offered.

‘Yeah. Thanks.’

‘You’ll find it as you left it. Cowley wanted me to go through your things, but I never got further than the paperwork.’

He shot a covert glance sideways, gauging Doyle's reaction. To his surprise, there wasn’t a flicker of discomfort. Perhaps he’d forgotten he ever wrote that letter. It had seemed like a drunken epistle. The thought started to worry Bodie, despite the look he’d seen on his partner’s face earlier. Maybe he’d read too much into it — maybe he’d even read too much into the letter?

‘Oh. Well that’s alright,’ said Doyle, as they walked out into the car park. ‘Not that I mind you nosing into my stuff – you’re always doing that anyway — but it’d be a bit daft, wouldn’t it, going to all that trouble and finding out I haven’t snuffed it after all.’

Bodie unlocked the passenger door of the Capri and opened it for Doyle, who laughed at the gesture of chivalry.

‘Thank you, Jeeves,’ he said mockingly, and got into the car, reaching over and unlocking the driver’s side for Bodie. In his distracted state, Bodie put the key in the door and promptly locked it again. Doyle emitted what could only be described as a giggle. Normally such a boyish sound coming from his mature, masculine partner would have charmed Bodie no end, but it played on his nerves now, with the mood he was in. He didn’t look at Doyle as he finally got in, started the car and pulled too fast out of the car park. He sped towards Doyle's place without saying a word. Doyle didn’t speak either; perhaps he found the silence comfortable.

 _What do I do?_ Bodie thought. The letter was burning a hole in his jacket pocket. If Doyle didn’t remember it had been in his desk, he wouldn’t remember it was missing. It would be all too easy for Bodie to destroy it, forget the whole thing had ever happened, try and go back to normal …

‘Oh, er, you didn’t post that letter, did you?’ Doyle asked offhandedly.

 _Post it? Why would I post it? It was addressed to me!_

‘Letter?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, to my solicitor,' said Doyle. 'It was in the writing case. Should’ve been one of the first things you came across.’

‘The writing case?’ Bodie repeated. _I found that all right._

‘Oh, yeah,’ he said, faking a casual tone. ‘There was no solicitor’s letter in there, mate. Sure you didn’t put it somewhere else?’

Bodie watched the changing expressions on Doyle's face. A confused frown — then the realisation of something — and for a split second, blind horror. And then Bodie understood.

 _You thought you’d thrown it away. That’s why you didn’t react when I mentioned your papers. Drunken git, you threw away the wrong letter!_

Hope was rekindling itself somewhere undefinable inside Bodie. It was hard to remember to breathe in moments like these.

‘I, um ...' Doyle began ‘ ... um ... I , uh ... that is ... are you ...'

Awkward. Beautifully awkward.

'In? Are you coming in?' he finally managed.

‘Yes, if you want me to,’ said Bodie. With a mischievous little lift of his eyebrow, he added, ‘I _could_ help you unwind. That is, if you're up to anything, you know, after …'

'Bodie, I _told_ you, I'm fine,' Doyle said impatiently. 'Unwinding's just what I … unwinding would be good.'

'Then unwinding it is,' Bodie told him, smiling.

 _I'll make him so happy._

‘Could you just give me a minute?’ Doyle asked, for once ignoring the hand that lightly brushed his thigh. ‘Just, erm, just want a moment alone at home. Just a couple of minutes, alright? I’ll rush up, you stroll up behind me.’

‘I’ll drive round the block if you want,’ Bodie offered.

‘Nah, honestly, no need for that,’ Doyle said. His voice was over–casual. ‘I’ll, er, see you in a minute.’

He jumped out of the car and hurried into his building.

 _He’s going to look for the letter,_ thought Bodie. _Right then. If that’s the way this is going to be …_

It wasn’t going to be calm and rational at all. It wasn’t going to be a discussion saved for a saner moment. It was going to be now. Bodie was terrified, but he didn't hesitate. As soon as his partner was out of sight, Bodie went in after him. Swiftly and silently, he climbed the short flight of stairs to Doyle's front door. It was ajar — stupid. Doyle must really have been agitated. But it was all the better for Bodie. He inched the door back on its luckily well–oiled hinges, listening to the “household jar within.” Papers were rustling. Doyle was muttering to himself. Bodie caught the odd swear word, and the panicked tone of his voice.

Bodie took the letter from his pocket and unfolded it, knowing exactly what he was going to say. He inched cautiously into the flat, rounding a corner to find himself standing behind Doyle, who was rifling through his desk, flipping through the papers in his writing case over and over again, looking on the floor in case he’d accidentally dropped something. Bodie knew that kind of hopelessness, and it was only a second or two before he couldn’t bear to watch anymore. He stepped forward and cleared his throat.


	14. Chapter 14

Doyle spun around, with the look of a cornered animal. Bodie spoke before he had the chance to feign nonchalance, or make up a reason for his anxiety. He’d have known Bodie wouldn’t buy him being so keyed up over a letter to his solicitor.

‘Is this what you’re looking for?’ Bodie asked quietly, almost apologetically, as he held up the letter.

From the way Doyle stared at the paper in Bodie’s hand, anyone would have thought it was his own death warrant.

‘Oh, fuck,’ he moaned, putting his face in his hands. ‘Oh no, Bodie …’

‘No, listen …’

‘No, look,’ Doyle interrupted, gesticulating wildly as he spoke, ‘I’m sorry, you were never meant to see that, I was never going to send it, I was drunk, I …’

‘Ray …’

‘… destroyed it, threw it on the fire, must have burned the wrong bloody one …’

‘I love you.’

‘… after that cock–up with Martin, you know, and I felt like shit and you were injured and you couldn’t keep your hands off that fucking blonde and … and … I was useless, he had the drop on me and I couldn’t even back you up …’

‘I _love_ you, Ray.’

‘… was amazed you still wanted me at all, let alone ... Christ, I don't even know what I'm saying ... don't go thinking I want everything to change, Bodie, alright? Please don’t let this wreck us …’

‘For the love of God, Doyle, will you just shut the fuck up?’

Doyle stopped babbling and stared at Bodie, who couldn’t resist moving a step or two closer. He was drawn towards Doyle like iron filings to a magnet, brandishing the letter like a weapon.

‘I am _trying_ to tell you I love you, you bastard. I _fucking love you,_ and you’re too caught up in pig–headed denial to hear it!’ Bodie’s eyes stung, and his raised voice was quivering, his emotions barely under control.

‘You …’

Doyle was breathing hard. His hands shook at his sides, and for a moment he looked utterly lost, like a man being made to face reality after finding out he’d been lied to his whole life.

 _I get that,_ Bodie thought. It seemed like they'd both been in denial, and why not? It stopped them having to face the consequences, the inevitability of what was coming next: _involvement,_ deep and uncompromising. But now that it all seemed to be happening, Bodie was ceasing to care what it would do to them.

Scratch _seemed_ to be; it _was_ happening. Bodie saw the expression on Doyle's face change. He saw Doyle, likewise, cease to care. And Bodie didn’t need mere words from him. He _knew._ He knew that their attachment to each other was stronger, and more important, than all the difficulties it would bring. What was more, he knew that in reality, they'd been in this relationship since their first kiss. They'd managed to keep things secret, and their friendship essentially unchanged, until now — why not from now on? The only thing that needed to change was the freedom to express their feelings, and what else could that bring but relief?

Bodie smiled: more warm and loving a smile than he’d ever faked to get his leg over, and now completely natural and sincere. It was a smile he’d ached to give Doyle for a long time, more than he’d ever allowed himself to reveal, until now, this first moment of complete freedom. It was obviously the last straw for his already strung-up partner. Doyle's mouth opened a little, and he breathed out — a short, vulnerable sound that cut through the silence.

‘Oh, God.’ The words came out as a dry sob.

‘Right,’ said Bodie, with a touch of mischief. ‘So worship me.’

‘Prick,’ Doyle replied promptly.

Then he laughed. But it didn’t break the tension. Doyle looked startled at the sound of his own voice, and Bodie felt more for him than ever.

Slowly, simultaneously, they began to move towards each other. As soon as they were close enough to touch, Bodie reached out and gently took Doyle by the elbows. He allowed his hands to travel lightly up to the broad, bony shoulders, resting against the collarbone, then up over his neck, his jaw, his cheekbones. Doyle’s breaths were shaking, as his fingertips ran over Bodie’s hips, his waist, then his chest, in a gesture that was as erotic as it was tender. Bodie felt his loins stir, and his breath caught in his throat. Then Doyle cupped Bodie’s face in both hands, leaned forward, and gently kissed his mouth: just a light, soft, touching of lips. He didn’t seek to deepen it straightaway, and neither did Bodie. They kept it slow, sweet, and quite chaste, although the fire, the longing, that this mere brushing of lips sent coursing through Bodie, was anything but.

He was on the point of pulling away, trying to draw things out or speed them up, or whatever came naturally at the time — but then Doyle stopped kissing him. The beautiful, tender hands stroked Bodie's cheeks, massaged his temples and over his eyebrows, making him feel relaxed, safe, sleepy. He emitted an ‘Mmm’ of appreciation and looked warmly into Doyle's large, expressive eyes, now gazing upon him with unguarded adoration. Doyle moved his hands over Bodie’s head, fingertips running through the short, thick waves of dark hair, pausing briefly at the back of Bodie’s neck. Then, most wonderfully of all, Doyle's arms came around him, pulling him close in a gentle but firm embrace.

It didn’t last long, though; too soon he had Bodie by the hand, telling him to come and sit down, pulling him to the couch and pushing him down. Doyle shifted Bodie’s legs apart and knelt on the floor between them. He leaned upwards, hands on Bodie’s shoulders, and began dropping tiny kisses all over his neck and jaw. Bodie wriggled with pleasure and closed his eyes, savouring the sensations that were taking over his body, turning his knees to jelly. He felt his cock become gradually harder, until the constraints of his clothes began to feel uncomfortable. Yet again though, he didn’t want Doyle to stop. It was too good, the press of the hard, limber body along his torso, the touch of the full, soft lips on his bare skin, the occasional teasing of Doyle's tongue, the way his hair tickled Bodie’s chin and ears — and his scent, too, that was so Doyle, the unique scent of his skin mingled with certain types of aftershave, soap, shampoo, deodorant; these lingered even at the end of a regular day but were fresh, now, from the recent shower. Fresh perspiration, too — his panic and nervousness, no doubt, turned to anticipation. The thought of how Doyle must be feeling turned Bodie on even more. But then Bodie opened his eyes, so he could watch what his partner was doing to him, and it dawned on him where he was. A flood of emotion took him by surprise.

‘Doyle,’ he murmured. ‘Last time I sat here I thought you were dead.’

‘Oh.’ Doyle said no more than that, but his kisses became considerably less gentle. Then, using Bodie’s shoulders as leverage, he pulled himself up to sit astride Bodie’s hips, and took Bodie’s mouth roughly and urgently with his. He thrust his pelvis forward, rubbing his crotch against Bodie’s. They both moaned at the sudden friction.

‘I’m here,’ Doyle said fiercely. He plundered Bodie’s mouth again, mercilessly. It was so good, it made Bodie’s head spin. He moaned into the kiss and ground desperately against Doyle's hardness, trying to ease his own aching need. His hands roved over Doyle's face and neck.

‘I’m here,’ Doyle repeated. ‘I'm alive. And you’re mine.’

Another rough, hard kiss, and at the same time he wrenched Bodie’s jacket off his shoulders. Bodie let go of Doyle so he could divest him of the garment entirely. Doyle broke the kiss, tossed the jacket to one side, then quickly removed his own and threw it down to join Bodie’s. He leaned forward for another kiss, but this time Bodie grabbed him first, claiming Doyle's mouth passionately, pulling him down on top of him. As they kissed, Doyle's fingers busied themselves on Bodie’s shirt buttons. There was a vest underneath, but Doyle made short work of that, ripping it in two. Bodie forgot to protest at this assault on his clothing as Doyle started kissing his way down to his stomach, lips caressing Bodie’s heaving chest, tongue briefly teasing his nipples, then dipping into his navel.

‘Ah, Ray,’ Bodie murmured, throwing back his head and arching his back. He lifted his hips off the couch, silently demanding that Doyle touch him lower down, but he moved up again instead, removing the shirt and torn vest, then nuzzling Bodie’s neck and caressing his bare upper body with light, teasing fingers.

‘My Bodie … so beautiful …’

His voice was husky with desire, wanton — yet so tender, so romantic, at the same time. Bodie’s heart and loins surged equally in response. Then Doyle sat back and removed his T-shirt, adding it to the growing pile of clothes on the floor beside the couch. He obviously didn’t intend either of them to get ahead in the nudity stakes. Bodie gazed appreciatively at the attractive shape of Doyle’s torso, the curls of dark hair on his chest, the small, dark nipples, and the flat, taut stomach. But he also registered, for the first time, the full extent of the damage to his lover’s body. The injuries were superficial: cuts and bruises. But the beatings would have hurt, and the evidence would take days, at least, to heal. And yet, Doyle was unselfconscious; his body was on display, promising sex.

Bodie had never loved Doyle so much as he did at that moment. And he’d never wanted that body so much as now, when its beauty was masked with the ugliness of injury. But his desire was momentarily taken over by deeper feelings. He couldn’t stop himself from staring at the bruises, running his fingers gently over Doyle’s ribs, making him wince.

‘Oh God, Ray, they really hurt you!’

Doyle looked faintly amused, but he also looked annoyed. Bodie understood that. He’d just been admiring Doyle for being unselfconscious; well, he’d just ruined that, hadn’t he?

 _Fucking idiot,_ Bodie cursed himself.

‘State the bleedin’ obvious, why don’t you?’ Doyle said, with a curt laugh. ‘You’ve seen me with worse than this. _They_ gave me worse than this. I mean, bloody hell, it’s not not even the first time you’ve seen me with me shirt off this afternoon, Bodie!’

‘Sorry,’ Bodie said. ‘Just didn’t hit home till now, that’s all.’

‘Still want it, do you?’ Doyle asked sardonically, stretching in what would have been a seductive gesture, if his eyes hadn’t been spitting fire.

The question cut Bodie to the heart. He jerked upright and took Doyle by the shoulders, shaking him.

‘You shut your mouth!’ he gasped, afraid he’d break down if he raised his voice. ‘Don’t you _dare_ ask me that!’

The anger was gone from Doyle's face as quickly as it had come. He captured Bodie’s lips in a fierce, passionate kiss. Bodie was still too angry to kiss him back. But then Doyle flung his arms around him, trapping him an in almost painful squeeze.

‘I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, love. I didn’t mean it, Bodie, I swear. You just caught me off guard, that’s all.’

His heart well and truly melted by the apology, Bodie gave in. Doyle had called him ‘love’ … two days ago he’d never have dared to _hope_ that would happen. A great wave of happiness rocked him, and suddenly it was like the argument had never happened. He wrapped his arms around Doyle's broad shoulders and kissed his throat, then the sensitive area just below his right ear; then Bodie worked his way across to the left side. Doyle moaned and writhed on top of him. They seemed to remember at the same time how aroused they both were. Bodie grasped Doyle's hips and began to thrust against him again. At the same time, he bent his head and took Doyle's left nipple into his mouth.

‘Bodie … Jesus … Bodie please … don’t, you’ll make me come, I don’t want … not yet …’

‘It’s OK,’ Bodie answered. For some reason he was determined that Doyle would have the first release, whether Doyle himself thought he wanted it or not. For one thing, he wanted to watch: concentrate on his partner and not himself. He released Doyle’s nipple and blew on it, eliciting a whimper from its owner. ‘We’ve got all night, Ray. ’S not like you can’t get it up more than once a night.’

‘Well at least let me get these off,’ Doyle said, gesturing at his jeans.

‘If you still want that in ten seconds’ time, fine,’ said Bodie. He abandoned Doyle’s left nipple and sucked the right into his mouth, rubbing it with his tongue as he bucked furiously against Doyle's crotch. He moaned against his lover’s chest as the sensations, and Doyle's answering sounds, threatened to send him shooting into climax.

‘Bodie, I …’ Doyle started to say, but seemed to change his mind, thrusting down harder ‘… Christ, don’t stop … don’t …’

Bodie looked up at him. His mouth was open and his eyes were closed; he was gasping, revelling in the pleasure Bodie was giving him, all thoughts of restraint forgotten. Bodie watched, and listened, and _loved._

‘Oh yes, Ray, that’s it,’ he urged shakily. ‘Come.’

As if Bodie’s encouragement had been an order to which he was programmed to respond, Doyle cried out with the unmistakeable abandon of orgasm, and Bodie felt, even through his own clothes, a warm wetness pooling in Doyle's denim–enclosed crotch. Then the hardness against him began to recede — a good thing too, because he couldn’t have held out much longer, and he didn’t want to come yet. He stopped moving and clutched Doyle to him, relishing the touch of skin against skin. Doyle held him tightly in return, and buried his face in Bodie’s neck. If Bodie felt a little wetness there, too, he wasn’t going to mention it.

‘Oh, Bodie, do you know how long I’ve wanted to hold you after …’

‘Least as long as I’ve wanted it, sunshine.’

‘Mmmm. Ah, that was wonderful.’

For a few minutes, Doyle kept still. Bodie breathed more easily as his arousal plateaued, and the ache became manageable. He felt Doyle's heartbeat slow to a more normal rate, and his breathing become more regular. He wondered for a moment if his partner might fall asleep on him, and realised that despite his erection, he really didn’t mind. Sex wasn’t everything tonight, and after nearly losing Doyle, after thinking he _had_ lost him, he’d happily hold him all night in the place where he’d wept himself numb only twenty-four hours earlier. But then Doyle shifted position and kissed Bodie’s neck, reawakening his desire.

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘You didn’t come! I can still feel you.’

‘Plenty of time for that,’ Bodie said easily. ‘I was holding back. Wanted you to be first. Dunno why.’

‘Mmm.’ Doyle pulled back to look at him. ‘Don’t care why. I’m hardly complaining.’

‘Ray, I …’

Doyle interrupted him with a kiss, then: ‘I know. Me too.’

They shared a delighted smile: how wonderfully _easy_ this was! Bodie suddenly knew what novelists meant when they said someone was ready to burst with happiness.

 _Although,_ he thought to himself, _that’s not all I’m ready to burst with right now._

Doyle seemed to remember that at the same time Bodie did. His sweet smile morphed into a wicked grin.

‘Alright, mate, how d’you want it?’

Bodie grinned back at the crudity of his words. ‘That’s not the question, Doyle. The question is how do I want it _first?’_

‘Touché. Well?’

‘In your mouth,’ Bodie told him.

‘Anything.’

Another dazzling smile, then the sweetest of kisses — then Doyle moved against him, nudging softness against hardness.

‘Tease,’ Bodie accused, gasping.

Doyle chuckled — then slipped away, down to the floor. Bodie let out a little high–pitched ‘Aahh,’ at the loss of stimulus. But he wasn’t disappointed. There would be more, and better, to come. Doyle removed his shoes and socks, then did the same for Bodie. Then came what Bodie had been waiting for: Doyle knelt between his legs and undid his belt, then the fastenings of his black trousers. Slowly, and without touching anything but fabric, Doyle pulled them down, and off, so that Bodie was sitting there in his underwear. Then Doyle did something Bodie wasn’t expecting: he lifted Bodie’s left foot off the floor, and, eyes never leaving Bodie’s face, he kissed the tip of each toe.

‘Lucky I just showered,’ Bodie remarked, between gasping at the contact; it felt unexpectedly good.

‘Wouldn’t care if you hadn’t,’ Doyle said with a shrug. ’You ticklish?’

He ran his pinky finger down the sole of Bodie’s foot, to test the theory. Bodie squirmed and burst out laughing.

‘Ray!’

Then Doyle did it with his tongue, which Bodie found both ticklish and intensely arousing. He was giggling and moaning like a virgin schoolgirl, and he wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that.

‘You trying to emasculate me?’ he asked, only half joking.

With a deliberate look at Bodie’s swollen crotch, Doyle answered: ‘Seems to be having the opposite effect.’

He sucked Bodie’s big toe into his mouth, and Bodie forgot to be worried for a moment. But then Doyle started on his other foot, making him giggle helplessly again.

‘Ray, if you wake up next to a sixteen year old girl with pigtails, it’ll be your fault,’ he complained.

‘If you think you’ve never laughed like that before, you’re sadly mistaken,’ Doyle replied, with a wry grin. ‘Anyway, a man who can giggle like a girl on the same day he’s shot and beaten five terrorists is just more of a man in my opinion.’

‘Ah, getting philosophical now, are we?’

‘You’re forcing me into it. Besides, it’s all good for you, specially the laughter. And if you can’t laugh like that with me …’

‘True,’ Bodie conceded. He leaned back and closed his eyes, feeling better — surprised he could feel so reassured at just a few words from his partner, then all at once not surprised at all. Of course Doyle's opinion mattered to him. That was natural. It was just … but oh, what he was doing now … he was working his way up Bodie’s legs, teasing with his lips and tongue, getting closer … closer …

‘Ah, now, I _could_ go back to your feet again …’ Doyle said mischievously.

‘Don’t you fucking dare,’ said Bodie. The delay he’d forced on himself, coupled with Doyle's attentions, had made the ache of longing in his loins intensify into pain. There was a wet spot where the engorged, leaking head of his cock touched the dark grey cotton of his underwear. It was onto that spot where Doyle now placed his tongue, exerting gentle pressure. Bodie breathed in sharply and arched his back. He was almost on the point of begging, but he restrained himself. Doyle knew what he was doing. The pleasure, when it came, would be incredible.

Doyle moved his hands underneath Bodie, squeezing his buttocks. Bodie moaned. Doyle kissed his balls through the fabric, then — _finally_ — hooked his fingers under the waistband of Bodie’s briefs, and inched them down. Bodie sighed with relief as his cock was freed. Doyle discarded the briefs in the pile of their other clothes. Then he stood up and looked Bodie up and down, his eyes taking in every inch of his lover’s naked body. He was starting to get noticeably hard again. Bodie saw the bulge nudge against the seam of Doyle's jeans, and it nearly finished him.

‘Ray, keep looking at me like that and I’ll …’

With an insolent look, Doyle unbuckled his belt, and stripped off his jeans, revealing nothing underneath. He stood naked and half erect in front of Bodie. His next move was so fast that Bodie felt he could have blinked and missed it. One moment he was standing there, displaying himself arrogantly before his desperate partner, and the next he was between Bodie’s legs again, gripping the base of his cock hard between thumb and forefinger.

‘You’re not gonna come until I let you,’ he growled. His expression was hard and aggressive. It turned Bodie on and made him angry at the same time. On some level, Bodie understood Doyle's need to dominate — after the experience he’d had, it was natural — but he’d still hoped that in the face of their discovery, they would make love as equals.

‘Don’t expect me to beg,’ he replied through gritted teeth.

Doyle's face softened.

‘I don’t.’

He stretched upwards, so his face was level with Bodie’s, then kissed him.

‘This isn’t about taking charge,’ he whispered, his free hand tracing the contours of Bodie’s face. ‘This is about making it as good as possible for you. For fuck’s sake, Bodie, I just kissed your feet. If I’m not afraid to do that …’

It was more the near-blinding need to come than actually seeing reason, but Bodie surrendered. He nodded, and Doyle smiled. He looked into Bodie’s eyes, and didn’t stop looking, as he inched his way back down his body again, and at long last, blessedly, took Bodie’s cock into his mouth.

Bodie cried out loudly, as the feeling between his legs intensified a hundredfold. He started to come, but Doyle's grip stopped him. He writhed and moaned, but Doyle was merciless, sucking him slowly and hard, teasing his hot, moist tongue over every inch of him that he could comfortably reach. Then, noisily, Doyle released him, and dipped further down, tonguing his balls, while still squeezing the base of his cock too tightly to allow Bodie’s release. Bodie felt a heady, astounding mix of pain and pleasure, equally intense.

‘Ray … oh fuck, Ray … so good … but you’re killing me, you’re … ah, you’re …’

Bodie only just remembered not to use the word ‘torture.’

Doyle kissed his way to the tip of Bodie’s cock, and once again looked up at him. The expression in his eyes was unmistakeable: pure, unadulterated love. Then he took Bodie in. All the way in. As his lips touched the finger and thumb that still gripped Bodie tightly, Doyle finally let him go.

The dam burst. With a yell, Bodie came, the head of his cock buried deep in Doyle's throat, and Doyle sucked him dry, swallowing every drop. It was the longest and hardest that Bodie had come in a very long time. He was shaking as Doyle released his softening cock gradually from his mouth. He smiled at Bodie.

‘Worth it?’ he asked.

Bodie nodded, hoping his incredulity showed on his face, because he wanted Doyle to see it.

‘Fuck. I’m gonna have a heart attack.’ Weakly, he beckoned to Doyle. ‘C’mere. I need you here.’

‘No, come on, let’s go to bed,’ said Doyle. He stood up and extended his hand to Bodie, but Bodie didn’t take it.

‘Ray, if I go to bed I’ll fall asleep.’

‘That’s OK. We’ll make it again in the morning. All the way, yeah?’

‘You want it now,’ Bodie protested, glancing at Doyle's cock.

‘I’ll live. I’ll fix it in the shower. Got to shower before bed since you made me come in me clothes.’

‘I’ll come with you. You’re not fixing anything on your own.’

‘Mmm, that’ll be nice.’

Doyle offered his hand again. He pulled Bodie to his feet and into a warm hug. He laughed as Bodie relaxed heavily against him.

‘No falling asleep on me! Things to do.’

‘Me, for a start?’

‘Dirty bastard.’

Bodie leaned on Doyle's warm shoulder, chuckling, and Doyle guided him to the bathroom, arms around his waist. Then he was left alone, as Doyle went to fetch a spare towel.

’Switched the electric blanket on, too,’ he said, as he came back into the bathroom. ‘I need all the heat I can get after today.’


	15. Chapter 15

The shower was in the bathtub rather than the cubicle Bodie was lucky enough to have in his current flat. There was a non-slip mat draped over one of the towel rails. Doyle put it down and leaned in to turn the water on. He didn't quite move in time, and as the spray hit his face, he gasped, and flinched away so violently that he would have lost his balance, had Bodie not been there to grab him. He slipped his arms around Doyle's waist, changing his grasp to an embrace, when he realised that he was shaking.

'Ray?'

'I ...' Doyle began. He was plainly trying to get himself under control. 'I don't think I can go in there.'

Bodie was taken aback. 'What d'you mean? You showered at HQ, why the problem now?'

'I don't know,' Doyle snapped, a brief flash of anger that was followed by a heavy sigh. He leaned back against Bodie for a second or two, then turned around and gave him a rueful smile. 'Same reason you didn't notice me bruises, I s'pose. Delayed reaction.' He took another step towards the bath, but then stepped back again, shaking his head, turning his face away from the flowing water. 'God, Bodie, turn it off, please. I can't stand it.'

Automatically, Bodie moved to do what Doyle asked. But something stopped him. He was no psychiatrist, but he knew his partner.

'No,' he said. 'That's a bad idea. You can't stop showering. There are no baths at HQ, what will you do when you need to wash there?'

'I'll deal with it,' Doyle said, between gritted teeth. 'Just not tonight, alright?'

'No,' Bodie repeated. 'The longer you don't face it, the harder it'll be. Trust me, mate. Come on.'

He stepped into the bath and put out a hand to Doyle, but he didn't move. Bodie stepped out again and took his partner by the shoulders.

'Ray. I'll be right with you. You have to do this, love.'

Doyle tried to wrench himself away, but Bodie wouldn't let him go.

'Trust me!'

Doyle twisted his shoulders, trying again to get free. Bodie didn't have the heart to try and force him, and he wasn't sure he'd succeed, either. He released Doyle, putting up his hands in surrender, and stepped back so he wasn't between his partner and the door. But he didn't turn off the water. He saw Doyle look from the bath to him to the door, and back again. Then he pressed his lips together and and breathed out through his nose.

'You're right. I'm being pathetic.'

'You're not. 'S perfectly natural, the way you're feeling. But you _have_ to get over it.'

Doyle nodded. He ran his tongue over his lower lip, the way he always did when he was nervous. Then he climbed smoothly into the bathtub and moved straight under the cascading water. Bodie watched him for a moment, frozen in admiration, before he registered the rigid tension in his lover's frame. Without further hesitation, he got in beside Doyle and spun him around so they faced each other. He saw the look of misery and fear on his face before he pulled him close.

'Ah, Bodie,' Doyle murmured, hugging him back.

Bodie held him, caressed him, felt him start to relax — and then felt Doyle's arousal, which had disappeared in the face of his memories, start to build again. Bodie moved gently against him, and he moaned softly, then pulled back a little so he could take Bodie's lips in a kiss, which Bodie returned with equal fervour. After a few minutes, though, the fierceness of their kiss diminished, turning into a more leisurely exploration of each other’s mouths, while Bodie's hands gently but determinedly explored Doyle's body, coaxing him into full erection. Finally, he pulled away, just enough that they could speak face-to-face.

‘Will you fuck me, Ray?'

‘Aren’t you too tired for that?’ Doyle looked at him doubtfully. ‘Anyway, I thought you’d want to do _me_ first. Was going to wait for the morning …’

Bodie looked at him in surprise. He hadn't thought for a minute that Doyle would want that to happen, so soon after what he'd been through, that bloody awful business with the hose ... Bodie, for all his desire, had been determined to take things slowly.

'Are you sure that's what you want?' he asked.

Doyle gave him a dark look.

'I'll decide what I want, Bodie, not you,' he retorted. But the anger was gone in an instant, before Bodie had the chance to react.

'You're right,' he said. 'I'm _not_ sure. I want to be, but …' He shrugged.

'Alright,' said Bodie. It seemed ridiculous, having a serious conversation when they were both soaking wet and Doyle, at least, was still hard. Though not as much as he had been, and becoming progressively less so by the second. Bodie felt angry with himself for ruining the moment yet again, angry with Doyle for suggesting something he clearly didn't feel comfortable with — and _furious_ with Rankine and his cronies for what they'd done to his partner. Stupidly, he'd hoped that love would conquer all, that they'd be able to carry on with their sex life as if nothing had happened.

'Bastard,' he muttered. Doyle, luckily, guessed who he meant.

'He'll get what's coming to him,' he said with a shrug. 'It's us we have to worry about.'

Bodie knew Doyle was right. He forced his expression to soften, taking his lover gently by the shoulders.

'Ray, don't worry about me,' Bodie told him. 'I'll do whatever you want. And I won't ask twice for what you don't want, OK?'

Doyle smiled, and arched an eyebrow. _'Now_ who's making who into the virgin schoolgirl?'

'I ...' Bodie was indignant.

'I'm kidding!' Doyle dissolved into laughter, burying his face in Bodie's shoulder. Bodie grinned and kissed his hair.

'You're mental, you are.'

'Fucking hysterical, mate.'

'Fucking gorgeous, whatever you are.'

Doyle's laughter subsided in a contented-sounding 'Mmm,' then he raised his head, and became serious again.

'You won't argue with me when I tell you what I want?' he asked.

'No.'

'Promise me.'

'I promise. I won't.'

Doyle nodded, and sighed, and looked down.

'But you want me to fuck you.'

'Only if you want to.'

Doyle's head snapped up.

'Of course I bloody want to! But you were the one being paranoid about me taking charge ...'

‘Stop over-thinking it, just do it.’

‘Over-thinking? You’re one to talk!’ Doyle protested.

‘Do as I say, not as I do,’ Bodie argued. ‘You hear me? I _am_ taking charge. If you want it, Ray, I want it. I’m telling you to fuck me, so fuck me.’

‘You romantic devil,’ Doyle joked. He hugged Bodie close, briefly. Then he stepped back, and reached around Bodie for the soap.

The first touch of Doyle's slippery hands on Bodie’s chest was heaven. For a few minutes they just washed each other, enjoying the closeness, the feel of each other’s bodies under duty-roughened hands, the intimacy of sharing such a private task. Then Bodie palmed the length of Doyle's cock, and he flung his head back, half-laughing and half-sighing, seemingly as content under the water now as he'd ever been, babbling happily as Bodie stroked him.

‘Oh, that feels good, Bodie. Christ, it’s amazing … so fantastic under … oh! God, you’re so … under the water like this, it’s … let’s never shower alone again, OK? ‘Cept at HQ of course. Dunno how the lads’d feel, walking into the locker room to … ahhh … hear me moaning your name … fuck! That’s lovely. I’m close already. Can just do it like this if you want ...’

‘Get on with it,’ Bodie told him firmly. ‘I told you, I _want_ it.’

He turned around, bracing himself against the tiled wall, spreading his legs and flattening his feet on the mat. Doyle didn’t say anything else, but a few seconds later, a wet, soapy finger pressed between Bodie's buttocks, making him groan with pleasure. Then, slowly and gently, the finger pushed its way in, nudging against the tight ring of muscle. Bodie relaxed and let it in, sighing as Doyle touched him deep inside. Doyle kissed the back of Bodie's neck as he fingered him, while his other hand came around to massage Bodie's soft genitals.

‘Don’t think it’s coming up again just now,’ Bodie told Doyle, almost apologetically. ‘Nice, though.’

‘You ready?’ Doyle asked, between kisses.

‘Yes, I’m ready. Do it.’

Slick with soap and pre-come, Doyle's cock slid easily into Bodie. Doyle took it slowly, moaning softly, and Bodie felt a twinge in his loins despite himself. Doyle felt so good. They both needed this. Even if Bodie couldn’t come, he had to feel Doyle inside him, loving him; he needed that closeness and togetherness. As Doyle penetrated Bodie completely, his balls coming to rest against Bodie’s buttocks, he gave a shaky sigh. His arms encircled Bodie, and he kissed the back of his neck fiercely.

‘Oh ... I love you …' he slid half out, and slowly back in '... love you ... love you ...’

Bodie, caught up in pleasure and passion, whimpered his name in reply. It was the first time Doyle had said the words out loud, and it nearly overcame him.

He wasn’t sure, in the end, how long Doyle lasted. Time could not be cited as a reliable measure of sex, much less of love. It might have been a split second or an eternity that Doyle thrust and rocked inside him. Bodie’s cock was still soft, exhausted, but Doyle's slow, sweet massaging of his prostate was incredible on its own. Bodie knew he was talking — afterwards he couldn’t remember what he said as Doyle made love to him — he felt sure that if he ever did remember, it would make him blush. But he knew he'd never forget the moment when Doyle's movements became jerkier, more urgent, and he touched Bodie’s face, turning it sideways to face him.

‘Kiss me,’ he whispered.

Bodie reached up and cupped Doyle's cheek in his hand. As they kissed, Doyle's body went rigid, and he uttered a high–pitched cry into Bodie’s mouth. It was as if it were the first time. More than ever before, Bodie felt utterly at one with the man he loved.

‘Beautiful,’ he gasped, when Doyle released him, and pulled out of him. Doyle didn’t answer. He turned around and splashed water in his face, not looking at Bodie for a moment. When he did look at him, he smiled, and Bodie couldn’t resist capturing that perfect mouth with his own. Then he broke away, realising that the hot water had long since run out. He shivered, and laughed.

‘Fuck, the water’s freezing! Come on, let’s finish up and get to bed.’

They washed quickly and efficiently this time, then Doyle turned off the taps, and they got out of the bath, reaching for towels and rubbing themselves down vigorously.

‘God I’m cold,’ said Doyle, flinging his towel away and snuggling into Bodie’s arms. They walked into Doyle's bedroom, and got into the double bed together. There was a queen-size bed at Bodie’s place, so he’d felt quite cramped on previous occasions that he’d stayed with Doyle. But tonight he felt like he’d have cheerfully shared a single bed, let alone a double. They didn’t have to pretend any longer that they didn’t want to touch. The bed was deliciously warm from the electric blanket, and as Doyle turned out the bedside light, and they settled into each other’s arms, Bodie felt completely happy. And for the first time in a long time, he felt completely safe, too, as he drifted off to sleep.

* * * * *

Bodie woke with a start, jerked out of his reverie by a strangled cry. He sat up in momentary fright, heart pounding. Doyle had broken apart from him and was well on his own side of the bed, writhing in his sleep, struggling with some unseen force. Bodie could hear him, and feel the bed shaking with the violent movement, before his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness and he could see his partner’s suffering. He was too focused on Doyle to remember to turn on the light.

‘No!’ Doyle cried out helplessly, then 'Mmmmm!' as if yelling through a gag. Bodie felt a stab of pain and anger. He’d been so wrapped up in how the day had ended that he’d nearly forgotten what Doyle had gone through.

Doyle's breath caught as if something in the dream was stopping it. He must have been reliving the “water cure,” as it was cruelly termed. He started to thrash violently. Bodie could see the horror in his mind's eye, as his partner had described it to Cowley: Doyle was stretched out on a table, struggling against the men holding him down as another man poured bucketfuls of water over his cloth-covered face, and Rankine barked out threats and taunts. Bodie could imagine Doyle's pain and terror: he was suffocating. Drowning. And, he realised abruptly, Doyle wasn't going to wake from it on his own.

‘Ray!’ he said urgently, shaking him. ‘Ray!’

Doyle continued to struggle; he wasn’t out of it yet.

‘Ray, it’s me, it’s Bodie! It’s all right.’

Bodie stopped shaking Doyle as he came to his senses. Dimly, he saw him open his eyes and stare into his. Bodie didn’t need to draw him into his arms. Doyle came there on his own, hugging Bodie hard, shaking like a leaf, whimpering between ragged breaths. Bodie held him close, hoping he might break down and cry himself to sleep; he was sure it would be the best thing. But then Doyle raised his head from Bodie’s shoulder and leaned close, so that their noses touched.

‘Make love to me, will you?’ he asked.

The next few seconds were agony for Bodie. He knew it wasn't the enema that had caused his lover's nightmare; he knew that for Doyle, the most recent torture had been worse by far; he knew that Doyle was seeking comfort more than gratification now; he knew he'd given Doyle his word that he wouldn't question his wants again — but he couldn't help it. He hesitated. And Doyle's reaction was predictable. His face hardened, a picture of irritation and hurt pride that was clear even in the darkness.

'You _promised_ you wouldn't …' he started to say. Bodie shook his head, knowing Doyle was right.

'Sorry,' he said. Taking a deep breath, he added: 'Ask me again. So I know you're sure.'

'Make love to me,' Doyle repeated. _'Please,_ Bodie. I need this.'

Bodie's voice felt trapped in his throat, so he replied with a kiss instead.

Hands fumbled in the dark, rubbing, stimulating, readying. A pot of lotion was pulled from a drawer and liberally, hurriedly applied. They lay on their sides, Doyle's body curving into Bodie’s, every possible inch of them touching. Bodie pressed his knees into the backs of Doyle's, and slowly pressed his cock into Doyle's arse. He wrapped his arms around his lover's body, closed his hand around Doyle's cock, and held him steady as they rocked together, breathing heavily; they knew each other so well that they didn’t have to waste time finding a rhythm — it was just there. Bodie knew when to stroke gently, when to build up, slow down, go hard, go soft. Neither of them spoke. They didn’t try and talk dirty, encourage or discourage certain moves, whisper endearments. There was just heavy, quick, excited breathing, and the creaking of the bed, the scent of arousal and the feel of flesh against flesh, muscle against muscle, man against man. Then Doyle was thrusting harder into Bodie’s fist; his breath caught, and momentarily stopped, and Bodie felt the precious heat spilling into his hand, the tight muscles clenching and releasing exquisitely around his length … he quickened his movements, felt his climax coming upon him, and was there, only then whispering Doyle's name: once, reverently. Then the world became still again.

Doyle moved gently up and off Bodie’s softening cock, and turned back around to embrace him. Their bodies, sated and relaxed, wound effortlessly around each other. Doyle's lips sought Bodie’s in a brief, soft kiss. Then he turned his face, wet with tears, into the curve of Bodie's neck.

‘I’ll be all right,’ he mumbled. A few seconds later his breathing evened out, and deepened, and he slept.


	16. Chapter 16

It was a duty officer who found Henry Charles Rankine, hanging by the neck in the prison cell from which he had been awaiting the outcome of his extradition trial. The news hadn’t been good. Cowley’s prediction had been right: the Powers that Be _had_ decided they would use him as a goodwill gesture to Moscow. But the KGB never reclaimed their man. Rankine had made his escape permanently this time.

‘They should’ve kept a closer eye on him,’ Bodie said to Doyle, over a drink at a pub near HQ, a couple of hours after Cowley had told them the news. ‘I’d like to think the Russians got him back. They’re bloody welcome to him.’

‘You’d’ve done the same as him,’ Doyle replied, staring morosely at the foam on his pint.

‘Nah, not me, mate. I’d’ve taken my chances. There’s always a chance of being able to escape.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ Doyle challenged. ‘What if they told you you had to go back to the Congo tomorrow? What would you do then?’

‘Hide behind you,’ said Bodie, leaning close to Doyle and grinning mischievously. Doyle turned his head to look at him, and the look on his face softened a little.

‘Good,’ he said firmly. His voice and his expression were equally intense. Bodie saw, out of the corner of his eye, the barmaid watching them, gauging the way they were looking at each other. She dropped her eyes, lips twitching a little, as she went to serve another customer.

Bodie felt frustrated. How he’d like to reach for his lover right here, kiss him long and slow and deep, and damn the rest of the world to hell. But that couldn’t be. Not while they were still on the squad. And although that might not last forever, and Bodie hoped against hope that it wouldn’t end in death, they were CI5 men for the present, and for the foreseeable future.

After all, what the fuck else were they going to do?

Bodie closed his eyes momentarily and sighed. He was resigned to his fate, and Doyle's. On the deep level at which he considered himself the happiest man on earth, the frustrations of CI5 couldn’t touch him.

‘Take me home, 4.5,’ he said.


End file.
